


Services Rendered

by gatekat, Verilidaine



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, First Time, Kink Meme, M/M, Prostitution, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-23 22:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gatekat/pseuds/gatekat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verilidaine/pseuds/Verilidaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>G1, Prowl/multiple<br/>Prowl has no use for social pleasantries.  He does, however, have an important use for regular overloads.  So he pays. And has strict rules. It's far too good to last forever, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Buymech and Jazz

Prowl knew the maze of the gutters here better than anyone would expect. He knew the shortest routes into the deepest depths, he knew the streets that would take him past the seediest alleys, and right now, that was what he was looking for. A few counter intuitive shortcuts got him there in half the time it would take someone who was only using the main paths. He wasn't in a hurry, but he saw no reason to stay longer than necessary. 

Now it was just a matter of finding the right mech. The one huddled against a wall with darting optics who needed the credits and would do anything for them. The one whose face would disappear back into the gutters and out of Prowl's mind as soon as he left, like all the rest. 

He wasn't desperate for an interface, nothing of the sort. But his processor efficiency was, on average, significantly higher in the several orns following a set of overloads. He came here because the emotions that would be involved with any kind of repeated liaison with another mech were unnecessary towards that goal and would prove counterproductive. They were easily avoided by choosing the path of a simple business transaction. 

And--Prowl paused as he looked down one more identical crevice that could barely afford to call itself a street and saw exactly what he was looking for. Darting red optics, hunched shoulders, probably willing to do anything for a credit or two. Prowl studied him for another moment, then approached, steady and calm. 

"I have five rules for you," he said once the mech had looked at him. "If you follow them, I will pay you." He held his hand out and flashed the credits for a moment before tucking them back away. "Would you like to hear them?"

He knew from the way those dull optics followed the movement that he had what he wanted. As few as they were to Prowl, the credits he'd flashed represented orns worth of fuel down here.

"Yes," the buymech responded. And this was a buymech. No pleasurebot would fall this low. This mech was willing to sell the use of his frame because he was desperate, not because he was created for the task of pleasuring others.

Prowl tilted his head forward, looking down on the crouching creature, moved his arms behind his back, and began without any further preamble, voice cold. "Rule one: No speaking. You will not attempt to interact with me, and try to refrain from moaning. I can overlook an occasional grunt if you can't help it, as long as noise is kept at the absolute minimum." He watched the buymech as he spoke, judging his reaction, deciding if it was going to be worth listing the other four. 

The mech barely moved, still listening carefully. Promising. 

"Rule two," Prowl continued. "Do not touch me. I do not appreciate my body being touched, especially my wings. Keep your movements as little as possible. 

"Rule three: No valve. You will not attempt to go anywhere near my valve. If you ignore this rule, there will be immediate repercussions. I prefer only my spike to be stimulated.

"Rule four: I expect two spike overloads--only two. The first is to be induced by your mouth, which you will swallow, and the second inside your valve.

"Rule five: You will speak of this to no one, ever. The consequences of breaking this rule are not worth the credits you might make by speaking. Once I have finished, you will have your credits, and you will clean up any evidence from yourself." Prowl's optics, cold and dispassionate, flickered over the mech. "Understood? If you meet all of these expectations, your payment will be generous. If you violate any, the consequences will be severe."

A slightly bemused look flashed across the buymech's features, but he nodded. "'h get't. How'ya wan'me?"

"On your knees and facing the wall," Prowl said, dismissive. "I have no need for creativity." He took the three steps that had his back to a wall and gestured for the mech to kneel in front of him. 

The buymech, painted in dirty white, black and gold, stepped forward and knelt. His hands carefully at his sides, he leaned forward so an x-vent from his mouth ghosted across Prowl's spike cover. It slid away and the spike pressurized in a neat, smooth motion, clicking up into place.

Prowl offlined his optics and leaned his helm back, palms pressed flat to the wall, venting slowly as he relaxed into the state that would allow him to enjoy this. Yes, this was a necessity, not an indulgence, but that didn't mean he couldn't take the pleasure that came with it. 

The lips that closed around his spike were a touch hesitant. This wasn't a mech that had done this often, but it hardly mattered. He pressed forward, taking Prowl's spike deeper, all the way in until it bumped against the intake, and then into it. Flexible tubing tightened, unaccustomed to the sensation of such a large, solid object stretching it.

Prowl focused on the heat coming from the mouth that spread out from his spike into the surrounding systems. The tightening intake sent out an imperceptible ripple of shivers, making Prowl twitch his hips forward just slightly, but staying otherwise still and silent while the mech on his knees moved.

The rhythm settled as the buymech got used to his task, but it didn't mean his intake was any happier about the intrusion each time lipplates met spike housing. The tubing squeezed and rippled, trying to force the intruder out, but it only made it feel better.

Back and forth the buymech moved, his hands tight on his own legs to keep them where they belonged.

Prowl's engines were heated and rumbling steadily before long, aided by the tightness, something he didn't always find down here, but he was always glad for it when he did. He was neither accustomed nor inclined to draw the experience out, and greater pressure and friction helped. He soon felt his spike start to throb with the sensations. 

He pushed his hips forward against the buymech's rhythm, hearing a quickly-stifled sound of surprise as the abused intake was hit unprepared. He reached out and held the other's head, shifting the timing to his own preference and moved with it. After a moment of startled tension, the buymech relaxed into it, offering no fight or resistance, but still kept his lipplates sealed around the sliding spike to earn his credits.

It wasn't long before Prowl's thrusts came sharper, faster, and a low moan was the only warning the buymech had before he pushed all the way in and held there, overloading and shooting into that tight intake. It spasmed around him, sharpening the pleasure, and the buymech's entire frame went taunt before he relaxed and let it happen to him.

Prowl was silent after that single sound, small shudders coursing through his frame. His hand fell away from the mech's helm as he released a slow vent, preparing for the second stage. As distracted as he was, he was several nanokliks behind in processing external feed that wasn't pleasure and missed much of the rush of movement that didn't go as planned.

The buymech stood, but another mech slammed into him and the two were soon twisting and thrashing on the ground. Snarls and curses registered as Prowl focused his senses.

He stared as he recognized Jazz through the flurry of limbs and claws, and then saw the weapon in the buymech's--the enemy's--hand. Jazz was holding his wrist and struggling to get his weight shifted enough to pin the other, spitting profanities at him as the buymech clawed at his visor.

The buymech suddenly arched his frame, shifting both of them just enough to get one leg between Jazz's and slammed it upwards before rolling them over.

Prowl dove forward as Jazz landed on his back, grabbing the enemy by the shoulders and throwing his weight to the side, pulling him off. The mech's arm shot back and a bladed elbow tore into Prowl's frame, making him hiss sharply. He tightened his grip, fighting to keep the mech still long enough for Jazz to take advantage of it. He didn't see what happened, but abruptly the buymech was limp in his hands and Jazz was trying to push him off.

Prowl let go and shoved the mech to the side and pushed back away from him, looking up and down the still frame. The gun he'd apparently pulled was in loose fingers and Prowl kicked it away before turning towards Jazz. "You were following me," he said, voice flat.

"Someone has to make sure the second most valuable mech in the army survives," he shrugged and got to his pedes. "You really have no survival instincts at times."

"Hm." Prowl looked back at the mech. "Who is that?" he asked, very pointedly not explaining himself and what Jazz had undoubtedly seen and possibly heard. It was a credit to the SpecOps mech that Prowl hadn't sensed him at all.

"Not sure," Jazz admitted as he knelt to turn the buymech over and studied his features. "It's not anyone I recognize, or I would have acted earlier. I moved when the pistol came out."

"Comforting," Prowl said, then cursed lowly. He'd have to try again, and roaming the alleys had apparently become unsafe. He moved next to Jazz and also looked down at the still face. "He acted the part well, he's from the gutters, whoever he is. Obviously I've become predictable." He glanced at Jazz. "'Second most?'"

"Prime's number one, even if he'd be all but useless without you," Jazz shrugged and stood. "Look, I know this helps you focus and all, but we really need to come up with some better rules about how you go about getting off. At least let my unit vet anyone you're going to use, if you won't use us."

Prowl stiffened. He shouldn't be surprised that Jazz knew. "That would be too involved. So would using your unit." He gave a frustrated growl. This had been his system for so long that he was all but conditioned to expect the second overload at this point.

Jazz gave him a look, then grabbed his arm and pulled him against himself as Jazz's back hit the wall. "Glitch'll be out for several breems," a leg slid up Prowl's, the heat of a bared and ready valve pinging his still active interface protocols. "Get it out of your system. We'll talk when you're stable."

Prowl glared at him coldly, pressing his hands to the wall on either side of Jazz's head. "Don't move, don't touch, don't talk," he said, in too much of a hurry to list his guidelines fully before he repressurized his spike and slid in. He hit the top of the valve and held there. "No sound." 

Jazz gave a small nod and held still, even his internal systems going nearly silent as he entered stealth mode. His valve cycled, rippled and squeezed, a level of attention to Prowl's pleasure that the Praxian hadn't felt in a very long time.

Prowl gave a quiet, startled grunt and braced himself, beginning to thrust into the almost totally silent frame. The lack of noise made it incredibly easy to focus on the sensation and Jazz could have been in stasis for as still as he was holding himself. 

No distractions, nothing to pull him from his concentration. Prowl chased down his overload with precise efficiency, completely focused on that goal. Jazz's cycling, attentive valve helped him reach it with half the amount of time and energy usually spent and Prowl grunted again, fingers curling into fists as his hips jerked forward once, twice, before he froze, shooting deep. He shivered through the charges before slumping, interfacing systems all cycling down, spike retracting. In the wake of the second charge he felt his processor relaxing and opening up, higher efficiency restored. 

Prowl straightened and looked at Jazz as the Autobot TIC lowered his leg and wordlessly wiped himself clean. The SpecOps commander's field was smooth, showing no signs he had any reaction to what had happened.

"Let's get back to base," Jazz suggested firmly. "We will hash out how to meet your needs in your office."

Prowl nodded and wordlessly held his hand out, holding the credits he had previously shown the unconscious mech.

Without a pause Jazz accepted them and slid them into a small subspace pocket, causing a tiny bit of tension to bleed out from Prowl. He'd been prepared to insist, to argue, but this went as smoothly as overloading in Jazz's valve had.


	2. Sunsteaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some verbal Sunstreaker/Sideswipe.

The base was brightly lit, every mecha visible was in good health and well fueled. It was a distinct counter to the sullen yellow former gladiator that trudged along after the black and white Autobot. It was the strangest contract he'd ever heard of, but Sunstreaker wasn't about to turn down that many credits for such a simple exchange. It made him suspicious, but this Autobot had a reputation of being good for his word. More than anything though, they needed the credits. They were both large war-builds, accustomed to plenty of energon, even if it wasn't always the best quality. In the arenas it was to the owner's best interest to keep them in good repair and well fed. Now it was just on them, and unlike many on the streets, they were neither prepared nor accustomed to hunger. Their systems weren't set up to run efficiently in that way.

The black and white mech stopped outside a door that looked like any other and turned to him. "Remember everything?"

"Of course. Be quiet, no touching, swallow when I suck him off, clean up after my valve, never speak of who I serviced," Sunstreaker rattled off smoothly.

"Good," Jazz nodded and palmed the door open, motioning Sunstreaker to enter. The room was a simple one, though pristinely clean and orderly. A single berth, a desk, a couple shelves of nick-knacks and datapads. It was the occupant that captured Sunstreaker's attention, however.

The Autobot Second in Command.

He nearly stammered, his optics bright with shock, before he caught himself and forced his frame to kneel in front of the black and white Praxian with piercing blue optics.

Prowl--even Sunstreaker knew that name--stepped forward. "I trust you have been briefed, and you understand the consequences of disobeying in even the smallest capacity." His spike cover unlocked with a click and slid away.

Sunstreaker simply nodded and leaned forward the bit it took to press his lip plates against the spike housing. His tanks churned, he despised what he had been reduced to, but it was better than seeing his twin go hungry. He pressed his glossa against the housing and swirled it, circling and tempting the spike to emerge so he could get it over with.

The spike slid out in a single, smooth motion, pressing against Sunstreaker's lips. The mech standing above him didn't move besides that, didn't vent or moan or react in any way that Sunstreaker was accustomed to. He'd been warned of that too, and did his best to take the spike in quickly, letting it press against his intake before going in. His tanks churned a little harder, but he focused on his job; suck the mech off. An order that clear meant more than just letting his mouth and intake be used.

He really hoped that his client would be more active when it came to using his valve. Just the thought of having a spike inside him made his valve grow slicker and clench in anticipation. He rarely got off when he was being paid, he hated that this was no longer just a fun pastime, but that didn't lessen how good it usually felt. 

The spike was hard and insistent against his intake and the mech still barely reacted even as Sunstreaker began to rub with his glossa. He pushed forward until his lipplates hit the pelvis, fighting against the automatic need to pull away. His intake spasmed in protest and over him, Prowl shifted for the first time, his frame settling as he began to relax.

Finally. It was about time he got a reaction out of the mech. He pulled his helm back slowly, drawing the spike from his oral cavity before plunging forward again, driving the hard length down in intake again. Then repeated, again and again until he could feel the beginning of a good charge building in the length.

At that point, hands lifted up and rested on either side of his helm, fingers curling around the back. Prowl stopped his next slide, very suddenly, and then pushed his hips forward. He held Sunstreaker's head still and gradually began to move faster.

It wasn't even difficult for the former gladiator to relax into this and allow himself to be used. He kept his lips closed around the spike and simply let Prowl move or hold his helm as desired. And the Praxian had taken complete control over the movements. He hit the intake hard with each push--uncomfortable, but bearable. He'd been through worse. 

The overload was sudden--a short, cut-off groan, accompanied by the tightening of fingers around his helm, bringing him in and holding him there, before the charge crackled along the length of the spike and transfluid hit his intake. He forced his intake to relax, allowing it to pour down and into his main tank. Not fun, not pleasant, but hardly that bad.

When his helm was released, Sunstreaker cautiously pulled back, prepared to stop if ordered, and stood when he wasn't. Without a word he lay on his back on the berth, spread his legs, lifted his knees and ordered his valve cover to open.

Prowl stalked over silently and climbed onto the berth between Sunstreaker's legs, settling back on his pedes, upright, and hooked his hands around under the yellow mech's knees. He tugged, pulling Sunstreaker towards him and thrust in. He started a smooth, easy pace, optics blinking off and no expression on his face. It was a bizarre situation, almost like he wasn't enjoying it, that this act was as perfunctory as it was for Sunstreaker.

Maybe it was. Maybe it was something the mech didn't really enjoy. It sounded bizarre, but Sunstreaker had encountered stranger things in his existence, short and violent as it had been. Whatever it was, it felt good to Sunstreaker and he did his best to make it feel good for his client.

It seemed to work, because before much longer Prowl was speeding up, his face and body starting to show small signs of the pleasure sensors that had to be firing from the motion. Tensing in his fingers, shorter, quicker thrusts of his hips, mouth opening just a fraction as his cooling vents kicked up slightly. His spike slid easily through the slick, tightened valve, striking the bottom with every push, unrelenting in its controlled drives. 

The hands around the backs of Sunstreaker's knees tightened suddenly and Prowl moaned, a low sound that Sunstreaker could barely hear. His pace quickened, briefly, and then he pushed in and held there, frame locking up as current surged through it and his spike pulsed, spilling into Sunstreaker. 

It wasn't enough, it rarely was when he was getting paid, but it still felt good enough that Sunstreaker forced his vocalizer off line to ensure he remained silent. The crackle of energy and thick pressure of transfluid washed sensation over his neural net. He wanted, so very much, to cycle his valve and offer this mech a freebee so long as he got off too. He knew it wasn't a good idea though, not with the way he'd been talked to about his duties.

He was definitely going to pounce on his brother the moment he got back. For right now, he lay still and left Prowl completely in charge.

The Praxian pulled away and retracted his spike. His optics flickered back on and he tilted his head for a moment, holding very still, before standing up off the berth. "Your credits are on the desk," he said, hiking his wings back up from the relaxed position they had taken and glancing down over his front as his spike cover slid shut. "If you do not have your own cleaning supplies, use the ones I have set out. I expect you to be gone when I return in half a groon." And with that, he turned on his heel and left. The door slid shut after him, leaving the room dark and silent.

Though he had his own supplies, he wasn't going to use them if ones he didn't have to pay for were on offer. His valve cover slid shut and he stood to get the supplies, grabbing the credits while he was up. It was only when he felt their weight that he looked down at what was in his hand and his engine nearly stalled out.

~Bro?~ Sideswipe prodded their bond.

~That job that paid so well ... you won't believe how well it paid,~ he responded with an image of what had been left on the desk and went to work cleaning himself, then the berth. ~I think we can manage most of the metacycle on this.~

Sideswipe's amazement filtered through, but also reservation and concern. ~What did you have to do that it paid like that?~

~Sucked a mech off, let him overload in my valve,~ he responded, holding to the terms even knowing that his brother could find out easily enough. With it he included a sense of how gentle the mech had been relative to others. ~Don't ask who, don't look. He didn't want a word of it to leave this room. For this kind of pay, we can honor that.~

Sideswipe settled. ~Fair enough,~ he said. He prodded slightly, then clicked disapprovingly when he felt Sunstreaker's unresolved arousal. ~Poor Sunny. Hurry back so I can help fix that.~

~Oh I will,~ he purred right back, looking over the room, then himself, to ensure both would pass inspection as being the same as when he walked in. ~You know, the mech who arranges this gig is going to show me out. I can say you'd take a slot, if you're game. The credits don't come much easier.~

~Absolutely,~ Sideswipe said. ~Sounds simple enough and that way I won't die of curiosity.~ His restlessness came through clearly. ~Hurry up and get shown out then and get your aft back here.~


	3. Jazz 1

Jazz huffed, annoyed with himself and the situation. It wasn't so much that he minded interfacing with Prowl, if you could call what happened an interface. He minded that he'd failed, again, to find an acceptable mecha to overload Prowl. Which meant it fell to him this time. He insisted that he be in the rotation of this fallback list. Prowl was easy on the optics and really wasn't demanding in any stressful sense, but really it was because he wanted to be sure that at least every few times _he_ could be sure that the mech who planned most of his missions and kept the army alive got what he needed.

Really, it was the least he could do.

That didn't mean he appreciated _having_ to do it because he couldn't find anyone else.

He took a moment to settle himself and walked to Prowl's door, palming it open and walking in.

He caught a tiny twitch of Prowl's faceplates, but he still couldn't tell if it was a good twitch or bad twitch.

The door slid shut behind him. "Last minute change," he said, stepping forward into the center of the room, a few paces away from Prowl.

The Praxian simply nodded. "You understand that while within this room, you have relinquished all special rights and status as an Autobot. By law you are no more than a civilian."

"Of course," Jazz said, nodding. He had signed the same paperwork as every other Autobot who had volunteered for this function, in order to protect Prowl from any possible accusations of using his rank to take advantage, or from breaking the strict rules governing fraternization between officers and enlisted.

"There are five rules if you wish to be paid," Prowl began, and Jazz tried his very best to stand still and look attentive. Was Prowl really going to insist in listing the entire thing again? Jazz had memorized this vorns ago and rattled it off himself more times than he could be bothered to count.

"Rule one," Prowl said. "No speaking. You will not attempt to interact with me, and try to refrain from moaning. I can overlook an occasional grunt if you can't help it, as long as noise is kept at the absolute minimum." 

Apparently he was. Jazz's patience gave out and he rolled his optics. "Mech, I know the rules," he said, then stepped forward and dropped to his knees in front of the Praxian, clasped his hands behind his back, and pressed his mouth to the spike covering, x-venting hotly.

 _Nothing._

"Rule two," Prowl continued, as if nothing had happened, not even looking at him. Jazz scowled and shifted back to rest on his pedes. "Do not touch me. I do not appreciate my body being touched, especially my wings. Keep your movements as little as possible.

"Rule three: No valve. You will not attempt to go anywhere near my valve. If you ignore this rule, there will be immediate repercussions. I prefer only my spike to be stimulated.

"Rule four: I expect two spike overloads--only two. The first is to be induced by your mouth, which you will swallow, and the second inside your valve.

"Rule five: You will speak of this to no one, ever. The consequences of breaking this rule are not worth the credits you might make by speaking. Once I have finished, you will have your credits, and you will clean up any evidence from yourself." Prowl looked down at Jazz for the first time, cold optics moving over his frame. "Understood? If you meet all of these expectations, your payment will be generous. If you violate any, the consequences will be severe."

"Understood," Jazz said, straightening and leaning forward once more, touching lips to plating. "Can we start now?"

Instead of a verbal reply Prowl's spike cover simply retracted, his spike already having pressurized the first bit.

Jazz immediately wrapped his lips around the visible tip, jaw relaxed and intake prepared to take the length as soon as it extended. He rubbed his glossa up against the spike while in the back of his processor he executed the commands to all but stall his vents out and silence the rest of his systems, leaving nothing but the most essential life-sustaining hardware running. He knew, without any doubt, that Prowl liked it far more than he let on. Whatever the kink was, Prowl had it hardcore.

The spike responded eagerly, the reaction speeding as the sounds from Jazz's systems died down. Not that Prowl was ever that difficult to arouse, like any mecha who paid for it, he was _ready_. That didn't stop the small flare of pride in Jazz's meta as the full length extended in less than a klik.

He swallowed easily and his intake tightened around the tip of Prowl's spike. Not in protest--Jazz was far, far too experienced at this task for it to be in protest--but in a precise, practiced squeeze that he controlled entirely. He massaged the underside of the spike and bobbed his head, timing to the nanoklik when he changed direction, matching up with the speed and frequency that Prowl used whenever he took control with his hand. Jazz's personal challenge to himself was to make it so Prowl didn't have to move at all for this stage. He'd only managed it once so far.

He felt the tingle of the charge begin to build strong enough to send zaps into his oral cavity, caressing his glossa and playing down his intake. There was a tiny sound, Prowl's fans kicking up a notch. It was weird, how quiet Prowl was in this. It had taken some getting used to, but it was just how the mech was. He never used a joule of energy he didn't have to, not even to feel good.

There was barely any warning before two hands were on his helm and Prowl let out a long, low sigh of release, his hips jerking sharply once, twice, then stilled with Jazz's lips pressed against the spike housing with just a touch more force than was required. It was another personal victory for Jazz, to bring the overload on this fast and that hard. He'd actually managed to distract Prowl's automatic systems enough to get that tiny bit of extra force.

He swallowed quickly, working his mouth to coax out every drop of transfluid that he could, then stilled and waited until Prowl's hands loosened and fell away before pulling off, risking a last lick up the spike's underside as he did. He rose smoothly and moved to the berth. 

The same position, always. On his back with his legs spread and valve bared, holding his hips up in the air with just enough room for Prowl to slide in and have Jazz's aft resting in his lap. Jazz had seen him take other mechs up against a wall, but only when a berth wasn't available. Every single encounter in this room had been the same position. It was only a question of how much it took to arrange the buymech into place.

His valve was slick and intentionally tight when Prowl slid into place and pressed into his valve. Tight enough to earn a tiny sigh from the Praxian. 

Prowl stilled as he always did, basking in the soft pleasure and the promise of what all this energy expenditure was about: a fully cleared processor. He'd studied himself and the datanets for an answer, asked Ratchet why it happened, but all he could find was the platitude of 'it works, don't worry about it so much' and in Ratchet's case a shrug and being shooed out of the medbay for such a trivial complaint.

Except it wasn't trivial. Not to Prowl. Even as he thrust into this perfectly responding valve it irritated him that he _needed_ this, and so often. With effort he isolated all threads of thought and quarantined them to focus on the physical sensations that were quickly driving him to completion.

Jazz held his frame perfectly still, every joint and plate locked into place. His valve was the only non-essential piece in him still online, and he rippled and squeezed the walls, caressing the entire length of the spike. He'd been able to put together the sequences of sensation that pushed Prowl to overload the fastest and used them, watching Prowl's face for even the smallest reaction. Prowl had never seemed to mind his optics being online, and since his were dark most of the time anyway while he did this, Jazz stared unashamedly. 

As tempting as it was, he had never once moved so much as a twitch when Prowl was spiking him. It felt good--it felt _amazing_ if he devoted enough processor attention to the way the spike struck the cluster node at the back of his valve--but it simply wasn't worth it to do anything for his own pleasure. This was for Prowl, and more than anything, a frozen and silent partner was what the SIC wanted. 

Jazz could absolutely do frozen and silent.

He could see it before he felt it, when Prowl began to come undone. Unlike the first overload, which Jazz was convinced was just to loosen him up enough to get the one he actually needed, the second came with more signs, a few more sounds, and tended to be a bit more drawn out.

The slide of spike in lubricated valve was what both were designed to respond to, and no matter what else he was, Prowl was a mech and responded as every mecha did. His thrusts quickened, grew stronger as the pleasure began to crest. Though unaware of it, his face softened slightly in anticipation and bliss.

One more stroke and he groaned, low and long, thrusting hard through the last few moments and into his overload.

Jazz moved the walls of his valve in tight, quick waves, creating the illusion of deeper movement for himself even though Prowl had frozen at the first spill of transfluid. Energy-rich and thick, the fluid hit aching sensors in hard jets and sent pulses of ecstasy up through Jazz's frame.

Something else he had learned, very quickly, was how to move his valve in such a way that was not only optimum for Prowl but also allowed him to stimulate his own sensors without being able to move his frame. Now that Prowl's overload had been triggered, Jazz quickly diverted all of his available processor attention to his own sensory input and overloaded immediately, sending energy crackling through his valve. 

Jazz made no sound, no movement, and nothing showed in his field. He had no way to tell for certain, but he was sure that even the light in his optics held completely steady. What he did know was that Prowl never penalized him for it, so his control was sufficient not to disturb whatever was happening for the tactician that made him work so much better for three orns or so. He'd learned that too early on. If Prowl was displeased with any aspect, it came out of the payment. It didn't matter if the mech in question needed the credits or not. Prowl needed to penalize failure for his own reasons. Jazz had no doubts they originated in the same place as be quiet and still did, which didn't come from where he'd expected. He wasn't entirely sure how Prowl had learned what worked for him, but he knew it wasn't about power, or even the rigorous control he exerted in every other facet of his existence.

That made it all the more fascinating a puzzle. The control Prowl demanded wasn't about control at all, he was sure of it. Like the positions, it seemed to be much more about repeating something that worked, a ritual. A strange one, but if it kept the tactician in top form, Jazz wasn't one to complain about the reduced losses.

He remained still as Prowl pulled out and stood, wiped himself clean with a practiced motion and retracted his spike.

"Your credits are on the desk," he said, as he always did, frame shifting back to its normal posture. "If you do not have your own cleaning supplies, use the ones I have set out. I expect you to be gone when I return in half a groon." He turned on heel to leave.

"Admit it, Prowl, I'm the best you've had," Jazz smirked from his sprawl on the berth.

Prowl paused on his way to the door, flicked a doorwing in annoyance and walked back to the desk to pick up several of the credit chips. It wasn't as if they mattered to Jazz, but every aspect of the process was ritual now. It mattered to Prowl, he had to punish or all this was for nothing.

"You are third," Prowl responded coldly, amused by the way the other black and white jerked at it.

"Who?" Jazz glowered, sitting up on the berth as the rest of the credits disappeared. He didn't care. He wanted to know who was better in the berth than he was and he knew Prowl would tell the truth.

"The order of satisfaction is based on the time and my energy required to achieve the two overloads," Prowl explained, as if Jazz didn't know exactly how Prowl graded the success of each encounter. "Thus Ratchet is the best, Wheeljack second, you are third, Sunstreaker fourth and Sideswipe fifth."

Jazz's jaw dropped. Ratchet, he could understand. The CMO probably knew some sneaky clinical trick to heighten spike stimulation in order to speed the whole thing up. But--

" _Wheeljack?_ " he repeated. There was absolutely no way that the completely eccentric, _chatty_ inventor was less distracting than he was when he was in stealth mode. His _best_ stealth mode. "How in the Pit is Wheeljack better than me?" This would have to be corrected.

"He performs several of the same unusual stimulation techniques as Ratchet," Prowl actually answered. "I presume it is derived from their medical training."

"Hmph." Jazz scowled, debating. He looked at the empty desk and decided that the credits were gone already anyway, he couldn't really do worse than he already had. "So, if I got them to teach me whatever it is, I would definitely be better, yeah?" 

"If you use them, I expect so," Prowl nodded before walking out of the room before Jazz could ask another question.

Jazz was still for a moment, pondering that, wondering how he could get either one of the two mecha in question to show him what they did, then grinned and got up to start cleaning. As soon as he was out of here, he was going to track the pair down with nothing short of an explicit proposition. 

This was going to be fun.


	4. Hot Rod

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible non-con interpretation, uncomfortable sexual situation gone bad.

Prowl watched the new mech walk through the doorway, eying him. His designation was Hot Rod. Prowl hadn't interacted with this one outside this room much, yet, but he'd shown promise. Brightly colored, almost brash, and he walked and held himself with the surety of a young mech, relatively new to warfare. Confident, ready to take on any challenge that the universe could throw at him, including this one. 

And to pass Jazz's initial inspection, he had to have the determined streak required to fulfill Prowl's demands. 

Prowl nodded to him once in greeting. "You understand," he said, "That while within this room, you have relinquished all special rights and status as an Autobot. By law you are no more than a civilian."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," the bright red and orange mech nodded. "You going to sit?" he made a vague motion towards the berth. All his systems were primed. This was more exhilarating than combat and promised to be far better. He was actually going to be in the SIC's berth!

A doorwing twitched, catching Hot Rod's attention, but he quickly focused back on the SIC's face when the Praxian began to speak.

"No. The oral stimulation will be while I am standing. The valve portion will be on your back on the berth," Prowl corrected him evenly, noting the disappointment and hint of confusion there, but pressed on. Jazz had passed this mech as an acceptable candidate.

"There are five rules if you wish to be paid," he began. "Rule one: No speaking. You will not attempt to interact with me, and try to refrain from moaning. I can overlook an occasional grunt if you can't help it, as long as noise is kept at the absolute minimum." 

Hot Rod cycled his optics. Was the mech kidding? 

"Rule two," Prowl continued smoothly. "Do not touch me. I do not appreciate my body being touched, especially my wings. Keep your movements as little as possible."

Apparently he wasn't. How the Pit did you interface with someone and not _touch_ them? What was he supposed to do with his hands? And seriously, how was he supposed to help keep Prowl upright when he overloaded the first time?

"Rule three: No valve. You will not attempt to go anywhere near my valve. If you ignore this rule, there will be immediate repercussions. I prefer only my spike to be stimulated.

"Rule four: I expect two spike overloads--only two. The first is to be induced by your mouth, which you will swallow, and the second inside your valve."

Hot Rod's jaw dropped slightly. The mech had to be kidding. He _had_ to be. Who had ever heard of putting an upper limit on the number of overloads you wanted? Prowl was crazy, no doubt about it. Completely crazy.

"Rule five: You will speak of this to no one, ever. The consequences of breaking this rule are not worth any perceived advantage you might make by speaking. Once I have finished, you will have your credits, and you will clean up any evidence from yourself." Prowl looked at Hot Rod seemingly for the first time, frozen blue optics looking him up and down. "Understood? If you meet all of these expectations, your payment will be generous. If you violate any, the consequences will be severe."

"Consequences? We are talking about a consensual interface here, right?" Hot Rod really was genuinely confused.

Prowl shot him a look that was almost confused. What had Jazz told this mech that had him this mixed up? "This is a business arrangement," he corrected. "If you cannot agree to the terms, or if you don't think you can abide by them, leave."

Hot Rod gathered his wits and reworded the question. This mech was far too powerful not to try and tread carefully. "What are the potential consequences other than not being paid?"

Prowl regarded him. "It depends on the manner of violation," he said. "Which rule, specifically, are you worried about, or shall I list them all?"

Hot Rod worked his mouth before managing to reply. "It's not the rules that I'm worried about. I just want to know how deep you'll bury me if I don't live up to expectations." And Pit wasn't that a ball of old oil to swallow. "Not getting paid I knew about. Not that I was risking more."

Prowl nodded once, his faith in this youngster somewhat--though not very--restored. "If you simply fail to live up to perceived expectations of silence and stillness through no fault of your own and despite your best efforts, your pay will simply be docked. I do not expect you to have the same kind of control and willpower as someone better trained than you. If, however, you attempt to interact or touch, I will stop you with whatever force necessary and you will leave. If you talk about this to any others--" Prowl fixed him with a sharp look, a hard glint in his optics. "Keep in mind that I control the lives--or loss thereof--of most mecha here."

Hot Rod suppressed his reflexive gulp at that look, but he nodded. He had no intention or plans to blab. He had no intention of breaking the rules. So all he was risking was loosing a few credits he didn't have yet. It wasn't like he was doing this for the credits anyway. He'd have done this for free, and happily so. "Got it. Was never planning to talk. Jazz made that one real clear. Just not with details. So just suck you off here?" he made a small motion to where Prowl was standing.

In response, Prowl let his spike cover snap back, keeping his gaze on Hot Rod, but not moving otherwise. 

The brightly colored mech knelt, awkward with his hands but trying his damndest to please. Once he had his mouth against the spike housing, he settled into the familiarity of the act, his hands gripping his leg armor to keep them where they belonged. His glossa circled the housing, teasing the sensors there to coax the spike inside to emerge.

It did so after a few more moments, sliding fully out in a single motion. Hot Rod recognized the smooth movement as a command initiated pressurization, but he wasn't about to complain. This wasn't the part he was looking forward to. He still knew how to give a mech a good time though, and for this mech, it was worth every effort. He relaxed his intake, locking it open by command, and slid all the way down the spike. Smooth, simple, factory issue. He could feel as much on his lips. It presented fewer options for stimulation, especially in the valve, but it sure made oral stimulation easier.

Hot Rod let his optics dim, then turn off as he worked the spike, sliding along it back and forth with a smooth rocking. His glossa played along the underside, lapping at nodes there as it passed by.

Prowl didn't make a sound and didn't move--not the way mecha with their spike in his mouth usually did, at least. There was a very soft whisper of relaxing hydraulics and possibly a slight shifting of weight, but nothing more than that. Pit, his vents were still whirring away as if he was in recharge. It was insulting, but what could he do but try harder?

When Prowl's hands grabbed his helm and began to guide him along with shallow thrusting, it was almost a relief.

And it seemed like Prowl, now that he was controlling the motion and rhythm, was finally able to enjoy this, if the tightening fingers and increased heat in his spike were any indication. He was still absolutely silent, but the pace was slowly increasing.

A tightly controlled shiver cascaded down Prowl's frame, tightening his fingers even more and shifting the pace to the harder, jerkier thrusts of intense pleasure. Hot Rod carefully relaxed his intake and squeezed it just as the spike pressed against the back of his oral cavity. He was rewarded with a shudder and low, drawn out moan. A harder thrust and Prowl stilled, energy crackling through his frame as he shot several hot, thick streams of transfluid into Hot Rod's mouth.

Prowl held there, frozen, for a long moment afterwards before his hands disappeared and he stepped back and to the side, turning away, leaving a clear path between Hot Rod and the berth. He just looked at the younger mech, spike still extended, and waited. 

There was a moment where Hot Rod simply dealt with swallowing and clearing his mouth, but he stood quickly enough. His valve cover slid open before he settled on his back and spread his legs in invitation.

Prowl walked over, his face expressionless even as his optics passed over the bared valve, and moved easily onto the berth in a fluid, practiced motion. He grabbed Hot Rod's hips, yanked up and back, pulling the other directly onto his spike and leaning forward into the contact, burying completely. He held for a moment, a slight twitch showing through on his mouth--good or bad, it was impossible to tell--then started to rock his hips.

Hot Rot's optics flickered in pleasure. Oh, he'd forgotten how much he got off on being dominated and taken like this. He tried to stifle a moan with some success, his hands in fists at his sides, and almost his entire reality centered on that blissful fullness and the well-lubricated slide across his sensors. Prowl wasn't that big, he was a standard sized frame with standard interface hardware, but oh _Pit_ did he know how to use it!

Prowl's doorwings twitched at the noise and movement and he slowed for a few nanokliks, seeming to gather himself briefly before picking back up. Every push of his hips was precise, controlled, and perfectly aimed to drive fully into the valve. His optics went offline and he tilted his head down, a frown of concentration flitting across his features. 

Hot Rod desperately offlined his vocalizer to keep quiet, but he could do nothing about his engine, and after a few more strokes he was whimpering and moaning Prowl's praises silently.

Another half dozen strokes and his hips were rocking into each thrust, his frame trembling at the edge of ecstasy.

Prowl wasn't unaware of the younger mech's pleasure, he simply didn't care about it. That wasn't what he was paying for, that wasn't what the arrangement was about. And he was not inclined to draw this out for his noisy companion the way he occasionally-- _very_ occasionally--held out for the several more thrusts needed to bring one of his favored berthmates to overload. 

He didn't trust this youngster not to form some kind of affectionate attachment if he overloaded, so it was in Prowl's best interests to finish as quickly as possible. The revving engine was making it more difficult, but nothing unsurpassable. He focused on the charge that was running through his spike, thrusted once more, held, and overloaded without a sound. He'd had to think too much about what he was doing to lose himself enough for noise.

He wasn't ignorant of the sharp whine of Hot Rod's racing engine picking up, or the way those hips became more aggressive as he stilled. He could feel it, just how close the mech was, but his frame was also locked up with his overload. It was only when the charge in his systems faded that he could do anything.

As soon as his frame unlocked, Prowl made to move away, not even pausing as he normally did to check his processor and take his real moment of bliss in feeling its efficiency restored, a sensation that was so far above the physical that it made the overload feel like a brief shiver. He was put off by the movement and wanted away from the noise of the engine, disturbed on an unexplainable spark-deep level by the way Hot Rod was trying to use his spike for pleasure. 

"No!" the youth cried out, his vocalizer's shut-down overridden by his need as he grabbed for Prowl almost blindly, catching him just above the hips. His optics were bright and unseeing, his frame crackling with energy he was desperate to have released by just a little more stimulation.

Prowl jerked back, pulled his spike in and snapped the cover shut, ignoring the shudder-worthy feeling of the transfluid and lubricant getting pulled inside, a growl rising up in his throat. He focused in on the other mech, battle protocol kicking in, and snatched his wrists, snapping both of them inwards, disabling the hands as threats. As soon as he heard the cracks, he disengaged and quickly moved away off the berth, optics bright and vents whirring and clicking in agitation.

The agony of having his wrists snapped cleanly inwards rerouted every joule of Hot Rod's charge with a scream of pain. He jerked away from Prowl, his optics wide and utterly terrified as he cradled useless hands against his chassis.

Prowl took a moment to calm and settle himself while Hot Rod dealt with his reaction and then pointed at the door. "Get out," he said, voice icy. "Go to medical, clean yourself, and never address me in anything other than a strictly professional manner again."

"Yes...yes sir," the youth quivered before struggling to his pedes. He paused just before the door opened. "I'm sorry, sir."

Then he was gone, leaving Prowl to clean up and with _fluids_ inside his spike housing no less.

He shuddered and snatched up cleanser, starting in on the berth so that it would be clean when he returned from the washracks, where he planned to stand until his frame was scalding. He pinged Jazz with Hot Rod's file, marked with a clear rejection.


	5. Ratchet

Ratchet left the traumatized and newly repaired Hot Rod sedated in the medbay and stalked towards the tactical tower. Mecha scattered before him and the storm of pain he promised to anything in his way. He didn't even bother to ping for admittance to Prowl's office. If the mech was doing something the CMO wasn't allowed to see, there would be a lock on it that would stop the door from opening. So he knew Prowl wasn't doing anything _important_.

Prowl didn't even lift his head when the door opened, focused on the screen laid into the desk in front of him. He made a brief change to his work, and then lifted his optics. "Ratchet," he greeted, nodding once.

"What in the Pits of Unicron made you break Hot Rod's wrists?" the medic snapped. "And I know it was you, because only you could terrify him too much to tell me what happened even after I promised not to report it if he didn't want me to."

Prowl looked at him expressionless. "It was the fastest and easiest way to disable his hands."

Ratchet scowled. "And just what was he doing with those hands that warranted that level of damage? Damn it Prowl, he's barely in his final upgrade. He was no threat to you."

Prowl frowned slightly, then suppressed a shiver. "He grabbed me," he said. "And used that as leverage to pull himself up. A simple break was sufficient to cause him to let go, and the pain, I believe, distracted him."

It was enough to make Ratchet pause. "It bothers you that much to have it be mutual?"

"It bothers me that he broke a clearly outlined contract," Prowl said, leaning back, giving the medic his full attention now. "As for whether mutually pleasurable interfacing bothers me... it doesn't, provided the partner still keeps to the terms. Hot Rod didn't."

"He touched you, so you broke his wrists," Ratchet's optics narrowed to a deadly glimmer. "You know I should write you up for a psych eval. That is a very excessive reaction indicative of something being seriously wrong in your social protocols." He leaned forward with both hands on the desk. "I'm not going to because we already know your social and emotional protocols are fragged to the pit and back. The few that still exist anyway. I _am_ going to insist on limiting who you have intimate contact with, as a medical order if I have to."

Prowl stiffened. "I don't _enjoy_ interfacing," he said. "I only do it because of the seemingly unexplainable performance increase it causes." His focus narrowed and shifted to the medic. "Maybe if _you_ would spend some time figuring out what's at work and why, I wouldn't need to engage in distracting, hazardous social encounters."

"Oh, I don't know, maybe you need it because it's _normal_ to need the release," Ratchet snarled. "As much as you hate having that glyph applied to you, you are still a mech. Some things can't be changed just because you find them inconvenient. If you hadn't done so much damage to your social and emotional protocols you wouldn't be dealing with this _problem_ now. Are you going to cooperate or not?"

Prowl's hands curled into tight fists and he stared determinedly at them. "Limiting the number I have intimate contact with to a finite pool guarantees repeated exposure, which increases the risk of emotional attachment."

"Doing serious damage to another mecha _will_ land you a psych eval, which puts you on medical leave," Ratchet countered with a warning rumble. "There are enough of us that have proven capable of seeing this as the medical procedure it is to handle the rotation."

Prowl looked like he was trying to shrink in on himself, uncomfortable and agitated in a way he couldn't explain. Forced medical leave would pull him completely from service, whereas the possibility of attachment would only hinder it, and then only if it occurred. Agreeing with Ratchet's orders was the most logical choice. 

It didn't mean he liked the idea of it. He thought his reaction to Hot Rod was fair and it was the same punishment he'd always applied for that offense, thus Ratchet's sudden insistence on changing the terms when nothing had changed for Prowl was frustrating. Though, he hadn't needed to use force on any mecha since Jazz had started the screening process after gutters buymecha became too dangerous, which meant Ratchet hadn't been aware of it until now. 

"How limited?" Prowl asked.

"To those you know, or someone safer can prove, are capable of doing exactly what you need them to," Ratchet explained it in fairly broad terms. "I'm sure I don't know them all, but there are five I do know of from my staff ... and no they didn't say a thing. It's just really obvious when you have my clearance level and know what to look for. I'm sure there's Jazz and some of his crew that I don't know about and a few others. If we need to add to that list, I'm going to insist that either Jazz or I do an actual interface confirmation that they can act accordingly." Ratchet softened slightly. "Look, I'm not trying to make this any harder than it has to be, but I have a duty to protect the Autobots under my care. You've managed centuries without an incident. There must be hundreds of mecha that have managed well enough to tolerate once a vorn."

Prowl nodded stiffly. "That is acceptable," he said. 

"Good," Ratchet relaxed. "Now, did you get what you needed from Hot Rod?"

"I..." Prowl trailed off. He had, even if the getting there hadn't been enjoyable, but the agitation he was experiencing now was quickly decreasing his efficiency again. "I know we don't have a planned appointment, currently, but would you be willing...?" 

"Yes," Ratchet answered smoothly, everything about him professional in a way that made Prowl relax. "Now, or when your shift is done?"

Prowl looked at the desk and his work. "When my shift is done," he said. "I am more than capable of finishing these plans with my current state." 

"Give me at least three breems when you ping me to come," Ratchet said simply. "I'll leave you a message if something comes up that I can't leave."

Prowl nodded again and watched as Ratchet turned to leave, waiting until he was almost completely out the door before speaking. "Ratchet?"

"Yeah?" Ratchet paused and looked at the SIC.

Prowl hesitated for a moment. "I don't...enjoy...that this is how I am," he said. "But I've never known another way to be. I don't regret it. But I don't enjoy it." He vented carefully, then gathered himself back into the cold, impassionate front that he was so well known for, and fixed Ratchet with steady optics.

The medic nodded. "I understand, at least in part. If you ever find you dislike it, I'll do what I can to show you another option."

"I don't want another option," Prowl said, turning back to his work. "I want a society and a body that is not driven and enticed by intimacy. I will see you after my shift." He flicked his doorwings in clear dismissal.

Ratchet simply nodded and left. If Prowl ever changed his mind, he would remember the offer.

* * *

Prowl acknowledged Ratchet's ping that the medic was on his way and closed down the report he was currently working on, setting it aside to be finished later. He stood, looking around the room, double checking as he always did that everything was in its proper place and condition. He moved to the center of the space and the vivid sensory memories of the last mech he'd had in here made him shudder before he pushed them away. 

Ratchet was good. He was calm, professional, and quick. More than anything, Prowl wanted processor strength and efficiency, but he also needed to wash away the strange, sullied feeling from the engagement with Hot Rod. In the gutters, he'd always known to expect undisciplined, lustful behavior. He--perhaps foolishly--hadn't been expecting it this time, and he hadn't been prepared for the unpleasant feeling of someone else trying to use his spike for their pleasure. It was fundamentally disconcerting to him. He _paid_ for use of a frame. He set out clear rules with plenty of flexibility. It was not unreasonable to expect partners not to break them. It was especially not unreasonable to expect them not to try to _use_ him when he wasn't being compensated for it. 

The door chimed and opened and Prowl realized that he had started scowling deeply and didn't manage to clear the expression away to a more neutral one before Ratchet stepped in. He knew the instant the medic caught the expression, but true to form nothing was said. He simply knelt in front of Prowl and x-vented over the cover.

It slid away, revealing a spike that had already started to pressurize and extend. Prowl looked down at the medic, noting how he was more relaxed before Ratchet had even touched him than he ever was during this stage with any other berthmate. Just a touch of Ratchet's field was enough to induce that effect in him and he released a slow, smooth vent as his doorwings settled down. He needed this partner right now, even if it meant violating his personal limitations of how often he could see the same mech in any given vorn. He trusted Ratchet not to see this as anything other than medical, it would be all right. 

Ratchet's touch on his spike was impossibly light, the fingertips sliding from base to tip and back. Even watching, Prowl had no idea why this touch was so intense from Ratchet, not that he'd allowed many others to do so. It sent a charge rushing through his systems so fast Prowl could barely track it.

He shivered and sighed, letting his arms hang at his sides, fingers relaxed and loose, already confident that he wouldn't need his hands. It felt so good to have the charge rise this quickly, to have that trusted, professional field against his, to know that his processors would be set right quickly and cleanly.

When Ratchet's lip plates brushed against the tip of his now fully pressurized spike the medic hummed without a sound, sending vibration into the rich mat of pleasure sensors against them while Ratchet's fingertips stilled at the base of his spike, seeming to feed pleasure directly into the area.

Prowl gasped, unable to stop the soft sound, and offlined his optics as his head fell back. As always, Ratchet had barely done a thing and already pushed him most of the way towards overload. Whatever the medic did with his fingers, whatever technique he used and however he had learned it, it never failed to make his spike throb with just the slightest touch. Ratchet was one of the very few who could make Prowl almost not resent the need for this. 

He could feel the current surging through his frame, rushing towards the breaking point. Close, _so_ close.

Ratchet could read him too, even with the light field contact they maintained. The lips moved forward, still vibrating as they passed over each micrometer of Prowl's spike with calm, controlled intent.

The movement pulled a moan from Prowl's vocalizer and as soon as Ratchet's mouth brushed against his plating and the tip of his spike pressed into the intake, which tightened immediately, his hips jerked forward involuntarily and he shot with a short, stifled cry, his hands tensing into tight fists but never once leaving his sides. Through the rush of wild, uncontrolled pleasure of the overload he felt Ratchet's intake milk his spike, taking in every drop and seeking more.

The Praxian shuddered when Ratchet's fingers moved away, and again as the mouth drew back along the same path, still humming silently. Without a word and no sound other than his hydraulics, Ratchet stood and settled on the berth, positioned perfectly for Prowl to press into him and claim the second overload.

Prowl followed right after and slipped onto the berth nanokliks behind, not even needing to look down as he took Ratchet's hips in hand and pressed forward, shuddering as he slid in, still riding the heightened wave of arousal that the medic was somehow able to help him maintain between the two stages. His optics blinked off again and even his first jerky thrust began to show the fraying of his rigorous self-control.

The first spiral of slick tightness that was Ratchet's valve around his spike almost wrung another low moan from Prowl, a silence he could not keep when he felt the micro-fine caress of something with just enough charge between the multitude of points to make his spike pulse in response.

He dug into Ratchet's hips and held as tightly as he dared without leaving dents behind (even though it had happened before and Ratchet had never said a word about it), rocking into the slick, cycling valve that sent a wave of sensation through him that he could only describe as liquid heat. Current ran up and down his spike, an electric bliss that was not entirely centered in the knowledge of the calm that would come after overload. 

As much as he would have been willing to, Prowl was never able to last long enough with Ratchet to help bring the medic to overload, and he compensated for it with excessive extra credits that he knew this partner didn't need. It felt incredibly inadequate as payment for what Ratchet provided him, especially in these last moments, but it was all he had. 

Prowl groaned and jerked forward and overloaded with a shout-inducing throb from his spike, hips twitching as transfluid spilled deep into Ratchet's valve, shudders running up and down his frame. Through it all Ratchet was silent, still except for his valve and most importantly, his field remained absolutely calm and professional. It was bliss for Prowl, the highest high he knew.

Ratchet was still relaxed, calm and collected when Prowl's shuddering stopped. Only then did his valve relax, allowing Prowl to withdraw with an absolute minimum of mess and stimulation.

Prowl was still for a long time, basking in the post-overload calm that settled into his processor, watching internal monitors reporting increased efficiency, higher thinking speeds, and reduced distractibility. Finally, he onlined his optics and stood, needing only a single, quick pass to clean himself. Perhaps if it meant more times with various medics, even if they weren't all as skilled as Ratchet, the restriction may not be all that unpleasant. The process certainly went faster with the medically-trained mecha. It wasn't as if any hint of no one knowing designations wasn't long, long gone. Even if they'd never met before, he knew their personnel records and he was far too high in rank for them not to know who he was.

His frame and processors in a wonderful state of calm and content, Prowl left to clean up in the washracks.


	6. Jazz 2

Jazz was on a mission. He was composed, focused, and intensely determined to succeed.

He was going to get Prowl to rank him as first.

It wasn't because he cared about the task or mech involved, necessarily, but more because Jazz couldn't stand not being the best at something once he had decided he deserved to be. And no sneaky medical shortcut was going to outdo all the work he had put into perfecting his stealth mode over the centuries, a skill that had helped him rise quickly to the rank of Commander, and become a deadly, silent warrior whose designation made his enemies shudder.

(So he liked to think. There was no way to prove it, but the abnormally high number of attempts on his life specifically seemed to indicate the fact.)

He stopped in front of Prowl's door and loaded everything he'd been able to learn from 'facing his way through Ratchet's staff. He hadn't been able to get the CMO himself--Ratchet was just too damn professional sometimes--but he'd gotten through a fair number.

A rhythmic, even cycling of his vents and a brief moment of introspection smoothed his field out, and he palmed the door open and walked in.

Prowl stood where he always did, impassive as he watched Jazz enter and kneel before him.

"There are five rules if you wish to be paid," Prowl began, and Jazz's jaw almost dropped open. There was _no_ way Prowl was being serious about this anymore. Jazz _knew_ he didn't make anyone else listen to the damn list anymore, not since Ratchet had limited the number he was allowed to interface with to previous successes after the incident with Hot Rod, and Jazz knew these rules better than any of them. 

"Rule one: No speaking. You will not attempt to interact with me, and try to refrain from moaning. I can overlook an occasional grunt if you can't help it, as long as noise is kept at the absolute minimum." 

Jazz almost scowled up at the tactician and loaded several to-the-point opinions about the definition of obstinacy, but remembered his goal at the last moment and deleted them. 

What would Ratchet do. Ratchet would sit quietly and patiently. 

Quietly. And patiently. Jazz knew he was good at both of those, but it was hard to remember why right now.

"Rule two," Prowl continued, nothing showing on his face about what the goal of this redundancy might be, although Jazz was starting to have his suspicions, "Do not touch me. I do not appreciate my body being touched, especially my wings. Keep your movements as little as possible.

"Rule three: No valve. You will not attempt to go anywhere near my valve. If you ignore this rule, there will be immediate repercussions. I prefer only my spike to be stimulated."

Jazz wanted to fidget. Him, of all mecha, wanting to _fidget_ because he was bored. He'd sat in ventilation systems more entertaining than this. 

"Rule four: I expect two spike overloads--only two. The first is to be induced by your mouth, which you will swallow, and the second inside your valve." 

One more rule, Jazz told himself. It wasn't worth it after all the work he'd put into this to ruin it over interrupting with something lewd and suggestive. Valiantly, he kept his face and field calm and even. 

"Rule five: You will speak of this to no one, ever. The consequences of breaking this rule are not worth the credits you might make by speaking. Once I have finished, you will have your credits, and you will clean up any evidence from yourself." Jazz was already waiting to meet his optics as he predictably looked down in the pause that always came at that point. "Understood? If you meet all of these expectations, your payment will be generous. If you violate any, the consequences will be severe."

"I understand," Jazz said, obediently, then leaned in immediately and pressed lips to plating, noting with a pleased internal smirk that it was already warm to the touch. That was new, though the speed at which it opened was not, nor that the spike began to pressurize before he'd even touched it. So he was making progress. Maybe if he kept quiet a few more times he wouldn't have to listen anymore.

Jazz wrapped his mouth around the tip, moving back with it as the spike extended, and then ran his glossa as lightly as he could down the length, rerouting a small amount of charge to run through his mouth. It was a poor imitation, he was sure, of the stimulating upgrades that the medics had in their hands, and it felt incredibly odd, but he was hoping it would help. 

As soon as he reached the tip again, he encircled it and started the silent hum that Wheeljack had used on him, the one that had made him overload almost instantly. He'd later learned that the vibration came from a technique used for massage therapy, but once the skill was learned, a mecha could create the sensation with several different pieces of hardware, including some in the mouth.

Prowl shivered, a tiny gasping moan escaping him. He knew instantly that Jazz had taken his ranking as the challenge it was and learned. Oh Primus he'd learned.

Jazz heard the gasp and would have grinned if not for the spike in his mouth. He pushed down until his mouth pressed against the pelvis and massaged with his glossa, moving in waves that continued back into his intake. With each press up, he repeated the small charge.

Prowl's fists clenched and released, then tightened again. He cut off the groan just before he overloaded, feeling the pleasure wash through him along with the charge. The part of his processors that never shut down noted that Jazz's field was much smoother than usual, but that wouldn't reach his consciousness until after the second overload had settled.

Jazz was a little startled how quickly the overload came on but easily kept it from showing and worked his intake back several times, coaxing out as much of the rich transfluid as he could as his reward. When the last of the charge faded from the spike, he mimicked something one of the medics had done with his fingers. He pulled off, flattening his glossa and pressing it up, curling it around as much as he could, stroking the entire underside with small, pulsing shocks. He carefully flicked the tip of the spike right as it left his mouth before standing, a bit of personal flair, and walked to the berth with just the faintest whisper of hydraulics, no louder than Prowl's fans. 

He settled himself in the usual position, hips cocked just right to take the spike in, already rippling and cycling. He locked his frame in place, stilled his field, and cycled every internal system down. He didn't even have the time to get himself completely silenced before Prowl drove into him with a hard, grinding thrust. It was far more energetic than the usual, and marked with a far higher starting charge in Prowl's field. The mech was genuinely aroused.

It took more effort than usual to keep to the level of stillness that Jazz prided himself on, but he still managed, focusing inward and rippling his valve around Prowl's spike every time he sank in, moving in the same rhythm of successful waves that he'd used in his mouth. Ever time Prowl's spike pressed against the back post constellation of sensor nodes he focused a charge through his valve lining, mimicking a mild overload to Prowl's spike, triggering its charge to rise faster in response.

The first time drew a faint shiver and grunt from Prowl, and a much harder thrust, a pace that only picked up as the cycle continued.

Jazz followed with the increasing rhythm, keeping up with the small charges, and before long his valve was shuddering for reasons that were not in his control. Prowl's repeated strikes into the dense sensory cluster in the back were sending shocks through his valve and into his frame. He pushed the charge slightly, strengthening it, and squeezed his valve, caressing Prowl's spike. Immediately he knew the decision to increase the charge might prove problematic for him when an overload began to loom.

He heard Prowl grunt and drive forward hard enough to send sparks flying. The hands on Jazz's hips tightened, making the armor protest at the pressure. The pain helped Jazz pull back, but not for long. Listening, feeling Prowl come undone so quickly and completely was more erotic than Jazz anticipated. The angle of thrusts shifted slightly and Jazz was lost.

And to his own shock and slight horror, it _showed._ He heard his choked moan and felt the waver in his field before he could control either. His valve rippled in tight waves, shivering and clenching around the spike in rapid, uncontrollable spasms. The only saving grace was that Prowl was lost, too. With the first real surge of Jazz's overload Prowl actually _keened_ and slammed forward before his frame locked up. The pump after pump of thick, charged transfluid spiraled Jazz into a second, softer overload before the first had even settled.

It was all Jazz could do to keep his frame locked in place, cycling his valve around Prowl until the other mech's shuddering finally faded. As soon as he sensed the tactician's completion, his cooling vans kicked in, desperately pulling air into overheating systems.

Prowl stilled, holding himself upright by force of will alone for many long nanokliks before everything settled. His processors cleared, the speed improved. It was what he was after. He pulled out smoothly, debating with himself. On one hand, Jazz had not been silent. On the other, it had been incredibly fast and intense.

Decision made, Prowl stood and wiped himself clean, tossed the cloth on the berth and turned to leave.

Jazz struggled to push himself up onto his elbows. "Hey!" he said. 

Prowl paused before the door opened and turned enough to look at Jazz, offering to listen.

Jazz was still putting his processor back in order. "Well?" he asked, knowing Prowl would know exactly what he was asking. Whether or not he would acknowledge it was the question.

"You are ranked second now," Prowl told him, and was gone.

Jazz's jaw dropped and he stared after him, then collapsed back onto the berth, venting heavily. "Pit," he said out loud to the empty room, then ran a hand over his face before gathering the strength to start cleaning.


	7. Mirage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand we head into left field with their arrival on Earth and well off the prompt now, but Mirage insisted and since we're both kinda Mirage/Prowl junkies, he got what he wanted. Even if the chapter ended up with almost as much Jazz/Mirage as Mirage/Prowl.
> 
> V: I think it actually ended up with more Jazz/Mirage, lol.

Prowl was struggling to adapt, but he would never allow that information to get out. Ever since they had been reactivated on Earth, and Prime had subsequently ordered them to shift their work schedules to the same activity arrangement the natives did, Prowl hadn't been able to keep up. This world completed a planetary rotation in only three joors, one groon, three breems and twenty-three kliks. A shift was barely more than a joor when Prowl was accustomed to twenty-one joor shifts for everyone.

As simple as the calculations should have been, it was becoming harder and harder for him to manage. The last thing he wished was to have his office door ping less than half a klik after his 'shift' ended.

"Come in," Prowl said, wearily, and triggered the door to open. Mirage stepped in. 

Prowl's optics flickered in brief confusion. Mirage should be reporting to Jazz, not him, unless there was a problem going on with Jazz, which he found unlikely.

Though, he admitted, not impossible. "Yes?" he asked. "Is there something I can help you with?"

The former noble walked with the smooth silence he was renown for, allowing the door to close behind him, then sent a signal for it to lock. Not that it would keep Prowl in, or anyone who ranked Mirage out, but it was a very clear signal that whatever the noble wished to speak about, he wished to do so with some assurances of privacy.

"If we can write a mutually satisfactory contract for it, yes," Mirage answered, his rich, cultural Cybertronian soft and soothing.

Prowl cycled his optics and straightened in his chair, giving Mirage most of his attention after an answer like that. "Explain," he said, not currently inclined to waste time on excessive verbal communication.

"You have something I want, specifically the rank to offer some protection now that I can not transfer when a base becomes too hazardous," Mirage said simply. "In exchange I can offer an interface partner that can be as silent as Jazz, knows most of Ratchet's tricks and can turn invisible if you wish. Unlike most mecha, I was never taught to expect an emotional connection with the one whose berth I warmed."

Prowl's vents came to a stunned halt as a dozen questions raced through his processor. He quickly eliminated and combined them down into two. "Define hazardous," he said, "And then explain how you know about those details." He paused for a moment, and then added, "I'm not necessarily saying no."

"I am a former noble, my personality does not endear me to other Autobots, and I am a spy," Mirage gave a succinct summery of why. "Eventually I am labeled a traitor and enough of the base desires my deactivation that I can no longer travel without my disruptor on. I know of your need because I am Jazz's SIC."

Prowl nodded as Mirage confirmed his guess for both questions. Of course Jazz would have taught his SIC about all the duties he would need to take over if anything happened, including that one. "Jazz is still functioning, and historically successful as a partner," he said. "Why should I add a new partner, one who is unproven, and if I did, why would I offer you protection when I have not offered anything other than credits to anyone else?"

"Because you are no longer in the same situation as you were in before," Mirage said simply. "As am I, you are now facing an indefinite future with the handful of mecha here. Even if every single one is an agreeable berthmate, you would be forced to have a rotation no longer than forty eight orns long." There was a slight pause as Mirage steeled himself. "I am not asking you to commit to this arrangement without proof that I can perform what you require at an exceptional level. I am suggesting that a single berthmate that does not have the programming to become attached to you is a preferable choice over such a short rotation, or doing without."

Mirage's statistics were accurate, and even then, barely half of the mecha here could handle what he needed. He'd been going without as long as possible between them. "You are suggesting being my sole berthmate," Prowl surmised, frowning slightly. "Which would set a new precedent, and thereby open up the possibility for special treatment, as you are requesting." He stood up and walked around the front of the desk, watching the spy. " _Have_ you proven you are capable of meeting my demands with someone else?"

"Exclusive within reason, yes. We are both aware than I am occasionally on missions for longer than three orns," Mirage's optics followed him. "I have proven my skills to Jazz, up to the point where it would break my seals."

"Your seals," Prowl repeated, stopping where he was, optics widening.

"It is traditional that my Intended break them, or chose who does so," Mirage said uneasily. "I have not have reason before now to alter that tradition."

Prowl was still for a long moment. "I see," he said, cataloging the next set of questions. "Would you still view my breaking your seals as a sign of permanent intent on my part, one that even indicated an arrangement that would last beyond an end of the war?"

"No. I have accepted the loss as the price of my survival. It is no longer a relevant matter," Mirage said simply and pulled a datapad from subspace and handed it over. "That is merely the first draft. I expect there are changes you will wish to negotiate before signing."

Prowl accepted the datapad and skimmed it for a klik, silent. "This is very thorough," he said, the closest he was going to come to praise for the level of detail and thoughtfulness he could tell had been put into the document. "I will read this and compile any changes or concerns I have." He glanced up at the younger mech. "You understand I will seek out Jazz's opinion and recommendation. Is he aware of this proposal?"

"I understand. Jazz assisted me in writing the contract, and prepared me to serve your needs as well as he was able given the limitations I imposed," Mirage stood smoothly and inclined his helm with a graceful respect that Prowl was simply not used to from anyone. "I await your contact," he added with polite deference before unlocking the door and leaving.

* * *

Prowl looked up when the door opened in the middle of his next shift and Jazz walked in, an enraged look on his face and his field spiking aggressively. Prowl watched impassively as he stalked forward and slammed his hands on his desk. 

"Jazz," Prowl said, nodding once, bemused but cautious. Jazz could be incredibly unpredictable and had shown remarkable disregard for rank and rule alike.

"Mirage said you asked what breaking his seals would imply," Jazz growled, and Prowl leaned back in his chair, face expressionless. "I _know_ what you're like in berth and even if you're willing there is _no_ way you're going to be able to put at least a couple joors into a proper breaking of his seals." 

"Jazz..." 

"No," Jazz snarled. "You _will_ formally ask me to do it. You're more than welcome to watch, but you can't appreciate that gift for what it is and by _Primus_ you aren't going to take it!" 

Prowl waited silently for a moment while Jazz growled, engines revving, before asking, "Are you done?" 

Jazz nodded, once, not backing down, looking like he was gearing up for a fight. 

"Well then," Prowl said, folding his hands together on the desk. "It's a good thing I have no desire to break his seals and was going to ask you to do it anyway. I do want it to be an enjoyable experience for him."

Jazz opened his mouth only to close it and stared at Prowl for a long moment while his field flickered with confusion and fight that had nowhere to go. "You do?"

"Of course I do," Prowl said. "I'm not a sadist. I do prefer my berthmates to not hate the experience. But neither do I have any real interest in interfacing beyond the necessary, and the effort required to break someone's seals without making it entirely painful would be wasteful and tedious." He paused for a moment, then added, "Not to mention, messy." 

That raised an optic ridge. "Messy? Messy bothers you?"

Prowl mirrored the expression. "I thought my behavior and demands made that rather apparent," he said.

"They're pretty normal," Jazz could only shrug. "The mech paying never cleans up, and swallowing, well that's pretty common too. The only weird thing you do is how aggressive you are about not being touched. I always put that down to being a control freak. Well, how quiet and still you want your buymech isn't that normal, but nothing there says it's about staying clean, so I doubt it is."

"It isn't," Prowl said. "The quieter and stiller the other, the easier to concentrate. Overload takes significantly longer with distractions. Disliking copious amounts of fluids on me is an unrelated personal preference."

Jazz nodded and considered the Praxian thoughtfully. "You know, it's possible to overload without releasing anything."

Prowl's optics brightened, the only indicator of his extreme interest. "With the same overload strength and efficiency of achieving it?" 

"As far as I know," Jazz nodded. "I've only known a couple mecha with the mod. It was originally a resource saving alteration, since you no longer need to produce transfluid. Ratchet'll know more about it. I don't think it would be that complicated a procedure." He considered Prowl evenly once more. "Mirage can be modified as well, to produce only enough lubrication to get the job done. That one I know is easy."

The mention of Mirage refocused Prowl on the reason Jazz was here. "I'll consult Ratchet, then," he said. "Now, about Mirage..." He paused while Jazz nodded and gestured for him to continue. "He's your Second, you've had far more interaction with him and know him better. Is he suited to what he's proposing?"

"More than you can imagine," Jazz sighed, a resigned edge to his tone as he dropped into a visitor's seat across from Prowl. "He's a noble second creation. His purpose is to become what his Intended or bonded needs of him. He does so well as a spy because he's currently looking to me to fill that roll. All he'll ever want from you is occasional approval and not to deny the rumors that he's _yours_. Well, when things get nasty he'll want a little more direct protection too. As long as you are clear with what you want of him, he will make it happen, gladly, and he'll enjoy it."

"Promising," Prowl murmured, almost to himself, then narrowed his focus on Jazz. "You seem protective of him. Are _you_ going to be all right with this arrangement? You know I won't waste my time bothering to emotionally care for him or his pleasure."

"I know," Jazz grumbled and slumped back, his arms crossing under his bumper. "I wanted better for him, a lot better for him, but as things stand I can't argue his reasoning. He'll need more protection than I can give within a few vorns, and Prime doesn't _scare_ these mecha. You do. That contract was written with your quirks in mind. You know exactly what he needs and expects from you, and he knows what you expect from him. Much as I hate it, it'll work."

"Good," Prowl said. "Especially seeing as how the mod and alteration you mentioned will likely decrease the probability of him overloading as well. Feel free to tutor him in that aspect," he added, then shrugged. "I don't care if he overloads as long as he can be subtle about it, and I'm sure he would enjoy being able to."

"I plan on it," Jazz huffed and stood to leave. "I plan on making sure he gets off one way or another when you're done with him too."

Prowl raised an optic ridge, feeling something close to amused by Jazz's reaction. "One more thing," he said.

Jazz settled back down, his gaze focused on the SIC.

"You said Mirage does so well as spy because he looks to you to fill the role of an intended," Prowl said. "Under no circumstances will I enter into this arrangement if it is going to decrease his efficiency in that aspect. I need your assurance on that point, and if I find out you lied in order to help him gain my protection, there _will_ be consequences."

"Really Prowl, since when have _I_ been afraid of you?" Jazz snorted through his vents. " _You_ now fill the roll of his Intended. If you want him to remain a top spy, if you want _anything_ of him, all you have to do is make sure he knows about it." Jazz's visor went dark, his visible features grim. "You can make him into anything you want once that contract is signed. If he looses anything of his skill, it's on you and what you asked of him."

Prowl was silent for a moment, then nodded once. "Understood," he said quietly, then straightened and cleared out his vocalizer. "Then I believe with a few minor alterations to this contract, it can be signed and I will formally request you have his seals broken. I will ask to watch."

Jazz nodded. "Then let's get Mirage in here and sort this out before a mission comes up. Though for your own patience, you might want to watch a recording. I intend to take my time."

"I have patience," Prowl said, vaguely insulted by the implication, but privately agreeing that he would in all likelihood much prefer a recording. "But it is more logical for me to be able to pause if need be in case of emergency. Very well. I will comm Mirage."

"You have patience when it's _useful_ to you," Jazz grinned at him. "This isn't going to be useful at all to you. Though recording it does have one other advantage. You can ask me questions if something comes up and actually get something resembling a coherent reply."

* * *

Jazz had spent several joors reviewing everything he could get ahold of on breaking seals, badgered Ratchet until he got some of the ointment that would make it easier and make it heal faster and then downloaded and reviewed as much porn and erotica, Cybertronian, human and other, that he had access too. He felt as ready as he'd ever be. Part of him was elated. He could finally check breaking a mecha's seals off his smelter list. The other part was freaking out just a bit that it was _Mirage's_ seals he'd be breaking. He'd put the mech back together, physically and psychologically, after four separate rounds in a Decepticon prison. Not that Mirage remembered it, which was the point.

He'd told his Second to go to his quarters early, to get used to it, have a cube of high grade and generally relax. That was three and a half breems ago, and it was time to stop delaying. With a final effort to settle himself completely into his role, Jazz opened the door to his quarters and stepped inside.

Mirage was relaxing in the most comfortable seat, empty cube in hand. He greeted Jazz with a warm smile, rising to his feet respectfully. Jazz smiled back and closed the distance between them. A gentle hand slid along Mirage's jaw, guiding him into a kiss that was just as tender. Mirage leaned into it, no stranger to this, and lifted his hand to cover Jazz's. The slight fluttering in his spark was new, and he told himself it was only nerves. 

"You know this is going to hurt, no matter how much care and prep there is," Jazz murmured, his voice barely audible between them. "I'm still going to make it as pleasurable as I can for you before you're _his_."

"The contract is signed," Mirage answered quietly. "I am already his."

"Not your programming. Not just yet," Jazz whispered before silencing any reply with a lingering kiss that expressed the full heat he felt. His hands slid down Mirage's sides, teasing and exploring the delicate, lightly armored form so different from most mecha still surviving. "Until you leave this room, you are still mine."

Mirage shivered and nodded, hands resting on Jazz's shoulders, his fingers light and flitting in a mixture of anticipation and nervousness that echoed through into his field. Soft kisses peppered his features, gliding from lips to optics to nose to cheek before finding his throat. The heat and desire in Jazz's field lapped at Mirage's, encouraging him to relax and allow them to weave together and share.

Mirage's head fell back to fully expose the more vulnerable cables in his neck up to Jazz, shivering again, harder this time, basking in the glow of the reassurance and care that Jazz was expressing with every touch, every pulse in his field.

"Such a lovely mech," Jazz whispered between kisses and light nips to those cables, his fingers busy exploring the frame he already knew very well. "You should have everything."

"I have everything I need," Mirage said, happy to relax into the soft words and the fantasy that Jazz was weaving for them. It meant a lot to him that his commander would put this much effort into making this as enjoyable as he could. 

The slow, soft pace helped Mirage relax and Jazz's mouth on his neck was unbelievably good, never mind the fingers dancing on his body. Jazz had always ensured his pleasure. It was a matter of pride for the mech. But this went far beyond simply caring that Mirage overloaded a couple times, and it warmed Mirage to know someone did care about him and what he had to offer.

Jazz hummed against Mirage's neck, finding the primary sensor cable and sliding his denta along it, triggering tiny irregularities in the dataflow. Mirage's fingers tightened in a series of quick twitches on Jazz's shoulders as they sent small shocks through his neck that triggered another cascade of current through his shoulders, causing his armor to heat. His field flowed completely smooth and open as Jazz chased the rest of the tension from his body.

"That's better," Jazz purred, lapping at the tiny bites and scrapes he'd caused as he guided Mirage to the berth. It was large and soft, with more than just the basic thin mattress. Jazz had invested in upgrading it, much like he'd upgraded the sound system and soundproofing in the room. "Tell me, lovely, are all your seals intact?"

"Not my hardline," Mirage shivered as Jazz laid him back. "Everything else... yes." He gasped as Jazz licked up his neck, glossa hot and caressing over the sensitive wires.

"Before you leave, I will have broken the rest," Jazz's helm came up to kiss him passionately as he settled over the lighter mech. "You spark," one finger reached between them to caress Mirage's chest plates, "will be mine. Prowl does not desire it."

Jazz had even made sure to confirm as much in the contract, which meant Mirage's answer could be completely truthful. "Then my spark will be however you desire, whenever you desire it," he whispered against Jazz's lips. Jazz's shiver had nothing to do with the scene or Mirage's touch. That something so intimate would be _his_ hit him harder than he imagined now that it was no longer an abstract discussion.

"As will be your pleasure," Jazz rumbled hotly, kissing him more firmly. "Every time Prowl makes use of you, I will complete what he began."

Mirage felt Jazz's shiver and the desire that came through with it and knew it for what it was. The coding he'd been designed for flared up, blissful in the act of conforming to what Jazz wanted, drunkenly delighted to feel Jazz's joy at the act. He pushed into the kiss, gasping out his complacency for whatever Jazz wanted that did not interfere with what Prowl needed.

"You will always be mine, Mirage," Jazz's voice was low, deep from his chassis as he shifted to the dialect that only the two of them knew. "When he no longer has use for you, you will still be mine," he growled between kisses, his touch almost fevered before he managed to contain himself. "You hear me? You will _always_ be mine."

Mirage wanted that future more than he would ever admit to himself on a conscious level. To do so would be blasphemy against his own programming, his own purpose, but his field throbbed with painful desire and he knew, as well as he knew his own spark, that Jazz spoke the truth. Prowl would not need him forever, and when that orn came, there would still be Jazz, and he would mold himself without hesitation. "Always," he moaned back, pressing his frame up and sliding it along Jazz's.

A low groan escaped Jazz before he forced himself to pull away, his vents already wide open. "You are entirely too desirable, Mirage," he rumbled and worked to kiss his way slowly down his lover's chassis. His fingers followed, trailing a liquid fire of sensation along Mirage's sensor net.

When he reached the tip of Mirage's alt-mode nosecone he kissed a few steps beyond it to give his fingers room to work under the light metal. Mirage gave a gasping laugh that quickly faded into a groan. "It serves me well when I'm not--mm--being chased down by angry Autobot mobs..." He whimpered as Jazz's fingers worked their way towards sensitive wires and gripped Jazz's helm, his frame already crackling with expectant charge from memories alone. 

"You were built for pleasure, my pretty," Jazz cooed, teasing with his fingers and playing along plating with his glossa. "You never look quite so good as when you're right on the verge. You have no idea how long I've wanted to look down at you just as you cascade into bliss with my spike deep inside you, riding every wave I've induced."

Mirage overloaded instantly at the words, his shock at how quickly they caused him to come undone immediately overwhelmed by the running current of electricity that chased its way up and down his frame. He shouted and squirmed with the tingling pleasure, neural net washed with a charge that left him momentarily dazed as it faded. As he regained his senses, he could feel Jazz laying next to him, stroking down his chestplate gently.

"For your spike and valve, I want you to let it happen," Jazz's tone was serious, though his field was full of desire, hot and bright and genuine. "Don't command the panels to open, don't command your spike to extend or your valve to lubricate. I want all that to happen on its own."

Mirage looked up at him, shivering with small aftershocks, and nodded, wide-opticked and vents whirring loudly. He settled back, trying his best to relax again, watching Jazz the entire time. With a smile Jazz nuzzled him, then kissed him softly.

Strong black hands caressed Mirage's frame, smoothing the charge and relaxing the former noble. Mirage sighed softly at the touch and ran his hands over Jazz's frame in turn, dipping his fingers into seams and teasing at the wires he found, enjoying the way it made Jazz's field flicker brightly.

"You have a natural resonance with pleasure," Jazz tried to stifle the moan as he moved lower, his lips barely brushing the top edge of Mirage's spike cover. "So lovely, built for it, you've wanted to be claimed your entire existence."

"Yes," Mirage breathed, feeling the same longing pang as he always did when he thought of binding himself to another, becoming whatever they wanted. His hands settled back on Jazz's helm and he stroked the sensory horns, circling his fingers around them. He knew from experience that whether for pleasure or comfort, Jazz liked that contact.

Despite how much he liked to talk, to wind his lovers up with words and imagery, right now Jazz's focus turned to teasing the edge of the spike cover before him, dipping into the hip joints with fingers and glossa when his kisses passed by.

Mirage gasped and shuddered, his hips lifting barely up off the berth. He had touched around the edges of this panel before, out of curiosity, and it had been nice, but it hadn't felt anything like _this_. He hadn't been expecting the hot slide of a glossa to create such a vivid sensory experience, hadn't thought that it could make him _want_ like this.

Jazz purred at the response and repeated the slow circle of kissing touches and licks around the edge, sliipping into hip joints and ghosting a hot breath over the face of the panel.

Mirage's entire processor became consumed with _need_ as soon as the heat spread out and then he froze as an unfamiliar command sequence pushed forward and executed before he had time to examine or counter it. With a soft click, the panel slid away and cool air hit the sensitive inner plating that had never been exposed before. Jazz breathed out again and just the change in temperature made Mirage moan and buck towards the commander's mouth.

"I've never seen seals before," Jazz murmured, his tone and field expressing his pleasure and the honor he felt that Mirage would let him do this. Slowly he lowered his lips to the edge of the array, outside the seal that covered the spike housing, and kissed his way around it while he reached for a tube of cream he'd gotten from Ratchet. "This mixed with oral lubricants will soften the seal and make breaking it less painful," he explained as he squeezed a portion onto the center of the seal, its coolness a striking contrast to the heat below.

Mirage nodded and tried to stay still as Jazz's mouth disappeared for just those brief moments. The cream felt almost frigid compared to the wonderful heat he'd been feeling before and he found himself tugging at Jazz's helm even as uneasiness flickered back through him. He vented carefully and tried to focus on what Jazz was doing, tried to find the relaxed calm again.

Then pleasure brought by smooth sliding pressure wiped his processors clean with a deep moan. It was only fingers spreading the cream, rubbing it into every bit of the seal with light attentiveness, but it still sent fire shooting through Mirage's internals.

And if this was only fingers touching his seal, Mirage didn't know how he was going to be able to stand the sensation of a glossa on his spike, but oh _Primus_ , he knew absolutely that he wanted it. He pressed his hips up into the fingers, needy, and tugged at Jazz's helm again.

A gentle trilling encouraged him to be patient even as Jazz complied, his glossa making a slow, sensuous swirl around the edge of the seal, spiraling inward until he reached the center, right over the tip of Mirage's spike. He remained there, playing his glossa over the sensitive, untouched metal before beginning the spiral back out.

Mirage gasped and stilled as all of his available attention zeroed in on the tip of the glossa and the heat that it was trailing over him. Dimly, he felt an unfamiliar pressure building beneath Jazz's lips and his hips lifted up again, pushing into air and his hands clenched down. "J--Jazz," he stammered. "I--I think--nn--I--" His fingers tightened in sporadic twitches and the pressure was building rapidly, sending him rocketing towards something completely unknown.

"Let it happen," Jazz vented his heat through his mouth, sealing his lips around the edge of the seal and working his glossa around the edges intently, wanting the pain to be as little as possible.

One of Mirage's hands shot up to his mouth and he bit down on his finger while the other gripped Jazz's helm as his hips bucked and the pressure broke with a short, sharp burst of pain. Mirage winced and gave a startled, muffled cry, and then a completely different sensation washed over him and his vocalizer shorted out. With effort, he lifted his head and looked down, hand falling away as he stared at the sight of his spike extended into Jazz's mouth. Every movement Jazz made coincided with a burst of ecstasy that made his field bloom out and then Jazz swirled his glossa--

Mirage's head fell back again and he would have sworn that he felt colors and tasted light and it didn't even slow down. He could barely process his visual feed, but what he got was the sight of Jazz pulling his helm up, then moving down, every tiny bit of motion sending further jolts of bliss through Mirage's neural network.

Then Jazz began to sing, or at least hum, a lust-filled song of pleasure and need, full of graphic details to things Mirage didn't even know about.

Mirage gave a choked sob as everything blurred together into an incomprehensible swirl of sensory input and a processor-deep ecstasy. The feeling of Jazz's mouth burst into impossible colors in front of his optics and he shouted out, lost to an overload that centered in on his spike, vivid and all-consuming, crackling out through him with an intensity that a tactile overload had never created before everything went dark and still, his processors knocked offline by the influx of data he was wholly unprepared for.

Jazz swallowed smoothly, noting when his lover was knocked offline and dropped all efforts other than to keep things clean. In that, Prowl and Mirage were the same. He allowed the softening spike to slide from his lips. The next seal he was looking forward to. His spike was aching.

Mirage came back into awareness in a soft reboot, warm and relaxed. His optics flickered back online and he hummed at the feeling of the open, aroused field pressed against his. "Jazz," he murmured.

"Any pain?" Jazz asked with a soft coo, his lips playing along Mirage's neck.

Mirage wrapped his arms around Jazz and arched against him. "No," he answered. "None after it broke." 

"Good," Jazz's vents shuddered slightly and he claimed a kiss that he poured all his arousal and need into. His lips worked against Mirage's before his glossa slid out to caress those pristine white lips, seeking entrance. Mirage gave it gladly and hummed his pleasure, relaxation, and wonder at how well breaking the first seal had gone. He'd had his entire adult life to wonder what the experience would be like, how it would feel to be touched like that, and it had exceeded every expectation and quelled the rest of his lingering fears. 

He had absolutely no doubts that Jazz was the reason it had hurt so little and felt so good and his excitement to experience everything else his commander had to offer surged up, making him deepen the kiss with a swirl of his glossa. Above him Jazz moaned and settled, rocking his hips against Mirage's, letting the lighter mech feel the length that would soon be inside him.

Mirage shivered and pushed back. Just the feeling of Jazz's spike sliding over his plating and knowing it was for him was causing small twinges to erupt between his legs. "So hard," he gasped against Jazz's mouth.

"For you, because of you," Jazz moaned and reluctantly broke off the kiss. "Such a lovely, exotic creature," he shivered, kissing his way down Mirage's chassis once more, teasing and tweaking sensors and wires as he went. "You're the finest construct I've ever touched, and once I watch you overload under and around my spike twice, I'm looking forward to riding yours. Such an exquisite spike is going to feel _so_ good inside me, and your reflex to please will make the temp just right."

"Anything you want," Mirage managed, shivering with the talented touches. "However you want, always." Jazz's voice and words wove around him, pulling him completely back into the fantasy and Mirage squirmed under his hands, throbbing need moving through his frame. 

The pleasure, approval and focused desire assaulting him from Jazz's field as his commander worked his way down his frame once more left him trembling long before lips and hot x-vents brushed against his valve cover. As soon as they did, Mirage pulled his knees up and back, spreading his legs as wide as he could, pushing his hips up. Jazz kissed and licked around the edges, making Mirage dizzy with anticipation as the soft pleasure built. 

This time, when the new command pushed forward, Mirage paid careful attention to it and its origin, noting the pathway before letting it execute. This was the system Prowl wanted; he needed to know how to control it, quickly and efficiently. His panel slid back and he felt the cool rush of air again, making him shiver and clench his fists down.

Jazz smiled against the sensitive metal, teasing around the seal with his glossa as he reached for the cream again. It was cool against Mirage's heat, melting into the seal easily as Jazz used his glossa to spread and massage it in.

Mirage stilled and a soft moan escaped him while his field smoothed into slow, even waves that rose and fell with each stroke of Jazz's glossa. It was a completely new pleasure, both similar and completely different from the way Jazz's mouth had felt on his spike. Softer and smoother, somehow, while still being warm and surrounding, making his vents shiver with every intake of cool air over rapidly heating systems. 

A different kind of heat was growing and pooling beneath Jazz's tongue and after many long, hazy kliks of blissful floating, he realized it was his valve starting to lubricate. He'd been so lost to the sensations that he had missed the command for that entirely. Fortunately Jazz had already promised to teach him through hardline how best to please Prowl, something very different from what Jazz enjoyed in his berthmate. Jazz liked noise, movement, responsiveness. Prowl wanted to be able to ignore that he was using a living being entirely.

The warmth spread upwards and out, a tingling pleasure that gradually built at Jazz's oral attention. Mirage's hands fisted at the berth as his vents grew shorter, more stuttered. "Jazz," he gasped, then whimpered as heat spiraled up through him as the glossa swirled around the seal. His helm pressed back and his optics flickered with the building charge. He'd thought--any moment--but Jazz wasn't moving, and showed no signs of stopping what he was doing, and Mirage couldn't imagine ever wanting him to. He felt heated and like he was teetering on an edge, and just one more swipe of that wet heat--

" _Jazz!_ " he shouted, and his hips bucked up into his commander's mouth as overload charge started to cascade through him. He was only distantly cognizant of the sharp pain of tearing where the pleasure was centered and then entirely new pleasure rushed him. Sensors inside his frame, his valve, lit up like the Towers on a festival orn. He was sure, if he had the processor power, that he could determine Jazz's exact dimensions inside him just from the sensor feed.

A mouth was on his, kissing him fiercely as his commander settled above him, no longer moving his frame as Mirage rode out the overload, his hands shooting up to grab Jazz's shoulders as his hips bucked up in completely involuntary spasms while the rest of his frame shuddered in ecstasy. 

Then it settled and he lay back, dazed, not sure how anything could feel better than that--and then Jazz rocked slowly over him and Mirage moaned, a low, drawn-out sound that pulled from deep in his chassis. The pleasure from the outside his valve was nothing at all compared to the pleasure from being full, stretched and the slid of a hard, round object along the thick mats of sensors.

"So tight," Jazz gasped as he was nearly out, only to slowly press back in. "Not going to last long. So wound up ... Primus you feel good."

Mirage moaned and arched up, pressing into Jazz, shifting the angle of his hips and very nearly crying out as it caused new sensors to come alight. "Wanted this," he said, and groaned. "Oh, Jazz--Primus, _more_ \--" He broke off, not even having the words for what he wanted, not even really knowing what it was, just that he needed it, badly. Choked, ecstatic sobs fell from his vocalizer with each new slide and they mixed with a breathless song of the Towers, praising Jazz and his frame. 

Each shuddering line of praise drew a moan from Jazz as his greatest kink was hit, hard. He'd never expected Mirage to still be able to feel anything at this point, much less be well on his way to a fourth overload in less than a joor. With a gasp Jazz gave in and slid his hands up to capture Mirage's, pinning both wrists under one hand while the other moved down that lithe frame to capture a knee and pull it forward.

The next thrust, the angle perfect to compress every single node in Jazz's spike that responded the best, drew a roar from the black and white mech as he flooded Mirage's valve with super-charged transfluid, the buildup of feeling three of Mirage's overloads without his own release.

Jazz's field engulfed Mirage and the absolute bliss of bringing a partner to these heights of ecstasy overwhelmed the former noble. Combined with the feeling that was nothing less than hot, liquid starlight inside him, Mirage was helpless in the wake, and he was lost to a processor-searing, systems-shorting overload. He drove onto the heated spike, using his leg to wrap around Jazz's waist and pull him in, striking the back of his valve while he sobbed in dizzying release as burst after burst of crackling hot transfluid rushed into him, filling him in a way not even the spike could.

When Jazz regained enough of his senses to work out which way was up, he smiled down at the beautiful creature that the Towers had built and he had created. Mirage was his in a way few outside their field understood. His agent, his family, his creation, brother, lover, heir. The mech that helped him craft generations worth of agents was finally, completely his.

It was with a soft smile that Jazz thought of the contract that brought this about. Prowl cared nothing for Mirage. Jazz cared too much and knew it. Yet in giving his agent up to a mate that did not care about him, Jazz had gained it all. Mirage was his now, in every possible sense.

He shuddered as he withdrew, every movement calculated not to rouse his berthmate. With efficient hands Jazz wiped the worst of the mess from himself, then turned to cleaning Mirage up. He knew the noble would appreciate being clean when he booted, even if he would never express it. That done he settled on the berth and smiled again as Mirage unconsciously responded to him and his desires. Jazz like to snuggle, he liked the warmth of another agent's frame against his, the reassurance of that field.

With a content sound, Jazz powered down. There would be energon when they recovered, then more pleasure. Not just riding Mirage's spike, but much more. He'd cleaned nearly two full orns for them both. There was nothing for them to do but indulge and maybe, just maybe, show Prowl what he was missing.

* * *

Prowl filed away his datapads in proper order, left his office, locked the door, and began the walk to his quarters, a fraction more briskly than usual. He had scheduled his appointment with Mirage for exactly twenty kliks after his shift ended, and he was looking forward to a freshly cleared processor. 

This particular orn also marked the final solidification of their contract. Mirage had proven himself capable of meeting Prowl's needs--even exceeding Prowl's initial expectations of his abilities--and had spent the last joor officially transferring quarters into Prowl's. It was an essential step for Prowl's particular manner of payment in this arrangement. Being assigned to the same quarters was a very clear and public announcement that Mirage was favored by the SIC, and would hopefully stall the dislike of the spy that followed him from base to base. 

Prowl had made sure to schedule this shift during a traditionally high-traffic time in the Ark, thereby exposing as many mecha here as possible to Mirage's physical transfer. His old quarters would be emptied by now, and all his belongings in Prowl's. 

Theirs, Prowl mentally corrected himself. These were now _their_ quarters. 

He reached the door and palmed it open, stepped in and looked around the space. He had long known that Mirage had fewer possessions than the average mecha on the Ark and those possessions were largely salvaged from the ruins of Mirage's former home. He had not anticipated how flawlessly they could be integrated into his space. Yes, he had granted Mirage a corner of the room, a full 25% of the space, which he expected to look full compared to his almost default arrangement.

Instead, the objects on display were aesthetically pleasing, arranged in a manner that did not make it look crowded and gave the appearance that the items were a collection, placed in the space because they belonged together, rather than because they were not allowed to be spread out.

It was pleasing to him on a fundamental level.

His gaze swept through the rest of the room and settled on Mirage. The former noble was kneeling, aft on his pedes, back ramrod strait and optics dim. Prowl knew from experience that he needed do nothing other than walk up and allow Mirage to perform.

He thought for a moment, looked back at Mirage's belongings, and checked his internal chronometer. He still technically had five kliks until the appointment officially began. 

"I believe I will enjoy these additions," he said quietly, staying where he was and looking back to the other mech. "They are agreeable to look at, and you did an exceptional job of arranging them." It felt awkward to say. Unnecessary. But Jazz has made a point of drilling into him that Mirage needed praise. Not a lot, not often or public, but at least once a decaorn Prowl had promised to say or do something to indicate his approval of the spy that now shared his quarters.

Though Mirage didn't so much as twitch, his optics brightened, focusing on Prowl, and his field hummed with pleasure. "I exist to please you."

Prowl nodded once in acknowledgement and decided that was sufficient. He was still getting used to it, but it hadn't been too hard to redefine the definition of payment from credits to praise. It wasn't nearly as intuitive to him, and he was still working on getting the net credit loss to be synonymous with the energy loss put into the compliments, but he was sure he would arrive there with further practice. He had been told, clearly and succinctly, that his performance and improvement rate was adequate.

Finished speaking, Prowl linked his hands behind his back and took the few steps it took to stand in front of the kneeling spy and retracted his panel. Unlike with less skilled partners he did not extend his spike on command. Mirage, like Jazz and Ratchet, could coax it to full extension within a klik or two with no effort on his part. He also allowed it because he had been told that despite the flawlessly flat field pulled so close to Mirage's plating that it was nearly absent, the noble found giving oral stimulation very enjoyable.

Thus it became another small form of payment to allow Mirage the time to arouse his spike on his own.

Mirage lifted himself from resting on his pedes as his Intended stepped up and granted himself the flicker of tingling warmth that always began to spread when the appointment began. Prowl was so easy to please once Jazz had shown him how. His SpecOps training in how to avoid detection and withstand interrogation and torture were brought to the fore to please his Intended. He pulled his field in as tightly as he could, smoothed it to display nothing, silenced his already near-silent systems further and x-vented his already hot internal air across the spike housing.

His lip plates followed, ghosting over the sensitive metal in a kiss.

Prowl hummed softly, the only noise in the otherwise silent room. Even after their relatively small number of appointments, Mirage already had the same relaxing effect on him that Ratchet had. It wasn't so much that his field was professional, but instead that his field could be pulled so far in that Prowl could only feel it where they were in physical contact. It was freeing in so many ways that this mech could almost make Prowl forget he was even there, and focus on nothing more than the physical pleasure. 

Knowing that Mirage would never love him, would never form the kind of attachment that Prowl so feared no matter how often they were intimate or what it intentionally looked like to those on the outside was exhilarating in a way he couldn't explain. Mirage was safe in a way that only Ratchet came close to, safe because Prowl knew Mirage had spoken the truth. He truly was not programmed to love. The emotion was one that the Towers deplored. He was subservient, he took pleasure in pleasing, he needed approval and he was very loyal, but only so long as Prowl chose to maintain the contract.

His spike responded eagerly, memories of pleasure and how safe Mirage was encouraging processor and frame to submit to the skilled mouth that slowly kissed, blew and gave teasing licks until Prowl's spike was fully extended and nearly rigid.

In a single, smooth motion his spike passed through soft white lips, into the warm cavity beyond and then down the tight intake that was always ready for it.

Prowl vented out smoothly as slick heat wrapped around him. His doorwings had settled down completely and his hands were loose at his sides, both signs of his complete relaxation. Mirage didn't even need to overload him in order to achieve the relaxing effect, which almost made the second overload completely redundant, but the idea of changing such a long-held ritual had turned out to be more difficult to accept than he'd imagined, even if it meant decreased energy waste. 

Besides, it took so little to overload into Mirage's valve that the energy expenditure was worth the price of not experiencing the anxiety that would come with any changes. 

A swirl of Mirage's glossa, the silent hum from his mouth and intake, had Prowl moaning in just nanokliks after the former noble took his spike in. It felt so good, just the right amount of pressure, just the perfect frequency, just the right pace to draw the most sensation from the sensors without feeling rushed.

Soon Mirage began to swallow each time he took the spike in deep, working the flexible tubing of his intake around the tip in much the same way that he worked his valve when it was being filled.

Prowl's entire world centered in on the feeling of Mirage's mouth and the way his sensors were firing in just the right order from the perfectly timed glossa swipes and intake ripples. Nothing existed outside the input from his spike, no sound, no field, nothing to pull Prowl from his concentration and focus. 

Less than a klik and the charge was breaking over him, rushing through his systems, drawing a low moan. He was distantly aware that Mirage continued to work his spike through to the end, when he began to relax, even though there was nothing to swallow. His processors began reporting much higher efficiencies, but he ignored it as he felt Mirage draw away.

Nanokliks were counted, the faint sound of Mirage settling on the berth, and Prowl moved. His optics were on, relishing the sight of _nothing_ on his berth even as he sank his spike into that perfect valve. Just slick enough to feel good and make the slide easy, creating as little mess as physically possible without causing Mirage pain.

He could look down and see nothing but his own spike, flickering with rapidly building charge that was echoed in the walls of the valve. He could feel Mirage's frame under his fingers where he held the hips, but with no visual, there was nothing to stop him from imagining he wasn't holding onto another mech. Even the faint brush of Mirage's field was easily ignored.

Completely still, absolutely silent, rippling valve, all of them mixing together for Prowl's bliss. He grunted and gripped tighter, picking up speed, driving forward into the heat. It squeezed around him in quick bursts, rippled back in short waves, and through it all, not one single twitch out of place from Mirage's field or frame. 

Prowl gasped and bent forward, holding onto nothing while he froze and overloaded, overwhelmed by the intensity of the illusion of being wholly, completely alone. Slowly he came to his senses and withdrew, let his hands let go of the nothing they'd gripped onto, and almost stumbled off the berth as a final aftershock crackled across one of his gyros.

His optics were completely focused, yet his berth was still empty. His spike only had a light coating of lubricant, something so easily dealt with in the washrack. With a soft hum of genuine pleasure Prowl left his quarters with the easy mental image of them empty and clean and the wonderful sharpness of his processors at full efficiency. He pointedly ignored any potential existence of the black and white form he could not detect but was sure had entered his quarters.

As soon as the door closed, Mirage shimmered back into visibility and carefully relaxed his frame down, gasping at his lingering, unresolved arousal. He slowly ran a hand down his frame and slipped it between his legs, pushing at his valve with a single finger, feeling it grip instinctively around the digit. His vents kicked on and he shivered in anticipation, not even needing to look to know his commander was there.

"Have the energy to overload both?" Jazz purred as he leaned over his favorite agent to claim a kiss.

"For you, always," Mirage murmured back against his mouth, basking in the blissful glow of having just brought his Intended to perfect overload, and now the extra joy of doing the same for Jazz. 

"Good," Jazz purred and kissed his way down Mirage's jaw to his throat as he settled between spread legs. Just the anticipation of this was enough to get Jazz ready, and he pressed his spike into that lightly slick valve with a shuddering groan. "Primus, but you feel amazing."

Mirage groaned and pushed back and relaxed the hold on his field, letting it spread out and curl around Jazz, eager and joyful. The slide of spike over the barely lubricated walls sent sparks of just enough friction and pressure. He squeezed and rippled his valve, a skill he had picked up quickly, one that he used to extreme success with Prowl and now employed for Jazz. "Love your spike inside me," he gasped.

"Love how good you feel," Jazz moaned into another heated kiss, thrusting deep with a full roll of his hips in each cycle. "Love the way you cry out only for me when I fill your valve, make you messy like Prowl could never stand to. Ohh, you learn so fast."

"Had a good teacher," Mirage answered with a short huff of laughter, wrapping his arms around Jazz and sliding his leg up and back, bringing his knee to Jazz's hip and clenching down. He clashed their mouths together and swirled his glossa, then Jazz rocked over him and struck _just right_ and Mirage's head fell back, breaking the kiss. He cried out, fingers clenching spasmodically on Jazz's shoulders. "Frag--yes--just like that-- _spike me!_ " he gasped, shaking in Jazz's arms.

Jazz grinned and repeated the motion, driving again and again against the node cluster at the back and rolling along the most sensitive spots along Mirage's valve. Despite his best efforts he was trembling just as hard as Mirage within half a klik. 

Mirage could feel it, even through his own pleasure, and he bucked his hips, pushing himself down onto the spike in time with Jazz's thrusts. "Come on," he moaned, rapidly losing himself, trying to hold out as long as he could. "Come on, come on, spill in me, let me feel--nn--yes, _yes!_ " His back bowed and he seized up, overloading hard around the spike, walls trying to pull Jazz as deep as possible. 

It was more than Jazz could take as his own neural network seized up, sending him into a full-frame freeze as his spike pumped hot transfluid deep into his lover, washing the walls and sensors with far more lubrication than normal and a far higher charge than Prowl was now capable of delivering.

Mirage sobbed and sang out his bliss as they rode the waves of charge out together, frames feeding the current back and forth with each surge until the last of it had faded and they slumped together. Mirage pulled in deep intakes and rolled his hips against Jazz, nudging their pelvises together and sending one last, gentle ripple through his valve. One hand slid up, wrapping around the back of Jazz's neck to pull his commander into a kiss, gentle but still heated. "How do you want me?" he murmured. 

"Right where I am," Jazz shivered into a low moan before sliding out of Mirage and rolling to his back, easily pulling the lighter mech with him. "I want to feel you come undone inside me by your own actions."

"Just that?" Mirage purred, settling over him, his field deceptively light. "Just feeling me come undone inside you?" He rolled his hips and allowed his spike to slide out. He leaned in and brushed their lips together, just enough to send a spark between them. "Or maybe," he murmured, voice growing deeper, huskier, "You might like more than that." Hands slid up Jazz's body to find his wrists and he teased at the joints, deceptively gentle. He could feel the way his commander's engine revved hard. It wasn't a difficult thing to do, really, but it always sent a thrill through Mirage to know his voice could create such a reaction.

"I think," Mirage continued, and his grip tightened, pinning, "You want me to take you, hard and fast, and I think you want to listen while I tell you all the things I'm going to do to you later, when we have all the time in the universe." 

Jazz shivered under him, vents that had begun to close snapped wide open as he spread his legs and retracted his valve cover. He was already so very slick, his frame hungry for a spike and the exquisite slide of it along slick sensors. But what Mirage could do with his voice was worth so much more. He was sure, if Mirage ever decided to ignore his demands, the noble could bring him to overload with just his voice.

"Oh, you like that idea, do you," Mirage purred, aligning their hips together and teasing at the opening of the valve with his spike, just barely pushing the tip in. He let his engines rumble invitingly and caught Jazz's lip between his teeth. Jazz moaned and opened his mouth just a little more, parting his lips with a needy sound and a rush of pure _want_ crashing through his field.

"And you want this, I know you want this..." Mirage trailed soft kisses along Jazz's jaw, relishing the way his commander tried to buck his hips up and control the scene when he'd firmly given up control, silently told Mirage what he wanted most. It was intoxicating for the noble to be able to read them both so well. Despite what Prowl thought, he wasn't the same every time. He didn't need the exact same thing time. It was close, it was a ritual, but Mirage could read the shifts in need and charge and reaction that told him exactly how to do it just right.

Jazz was just as easy to read, though it was far more diverse in desires. Mirage knew the truth was that as long as they both got off, Jazz would be happy with it. It didn't take away any of the pride Mirage felt when he could make it exceptional, instead of just good. With Jazz trembling under him, his field a riot of desire before he'd even been entered, there was no mistaking how vulnerable the black and white was to words tonight.

"Luckily for you," Mirage purred, "We don't have nearly enough time for me to tease you to overload just like this." He rubbed with his spike very lightly. "So we..." He slammed his hips forward, burying himself and drinking in the tight spasm of surprise and welcome from the valve, and the shameless cry from Jazz. "Will just have to do it like this." He pulled out, thrust back in, striking the back of Jazz's valve.

With another cry and full-frame shudder Jazz rolled his hips to give Mirage the best angle for such a pounding and gave himself up completely to what he'd asked for and what he hadn't even realized he was so ready for.

Oh, what that mech could do with words!

Mirage groaned as he rocked into Jazz and his spike started to ache and throb from the way the valve clenched and spasmed around him. "You want it hard, so hard, you want me to split you open, make you scream..." He took a shuddering intake, tried to keep his thoughts together as the mech under him keened and moaned his approval. "Who would have ever guessed you like being pinned and used like this, spreading your legs for any hard spike that can fill you, wanting it so bad..." Mirage ground their hips together, thrusting in fast and deep, driving both of them towards overload.

"Feels good," Jazz gasped out his only defense, such as it was. "Hav'ta take what's good when it comes." He shuddered, his hips rocking and valve lining alive with the charge of friction and arousal. "Nobody does this like you."

"Because nobody knows you like me," Mirage said. "And I'm going to use you over and over, tie you up, make you overload on my spike until you can't even move, then suck your spike until you shoot all over my face..." Mirage's engines revved and whined with effort. "I know you love the way it looks on my lips, I know you love to taste it when I kiss you."

Jazz roared, his frame going taunt and sharp, completely lost to the rush of energy and the intense pleasure of spike and words. His valve rippled and crackled, seeking to draw the pleasure-giver over the edge with him.

Mirage followed gladly, letting go of any semblance of control as he tumbled after Jazz, hips jerking forward and his entire body seizing as he spilled, shooting his transfluid into his lover and crying out his name. He shuddered through the overload, vision whiting out before he slumped down, cooling fans straining and his grip on Jazz's wrists loosening.

He could feel it when Jazz weakly wrapped his arms around him, holding him through the final aftershocks.

"It's greedy of me, but I hope that Prowl never works out how to overload you," Jazz murmured, stroking his agent's back with a light touch. "I'd miss having you so eager to see me when he's done with you."

Mirage purred and arched up into the touch, nuzzling. But as much as he wanted to stay here just like this, his chronometer was reminding him that barely five more kliks remained in Prowl's breem of absence, and they would need to hurry to clean the room and make sure at least Jazz was out by the time Prowl got back. 

"Knowing that you want me makes me eager," he said, and regretfully sat up, sliding out. He leaned forward, reaching over Jazz for the supplies on the berthside table. "Prowl won't want me for another few orns, and I'm still in cool down from my last mission, so that gives me plenty of free time."

Jazz grinned and closed his valve cover before rolling off the berth to give Mirage a hand in cleaning up. "I'm looking forward to helping you relax more."

* * *

Mirage was tired, finally repaired and out of that hazardous to all state of processors that came with a mission that went bad. It had taken Jazz nearly three full local days to repair and get him to stand down this time. It had been bad and they both knew it. He hadn't really been ready to be cut loose when the alarm sounded, but it didn't matter. He was fit enough for battlefield duty and he went.

Invisible.

He did what he did best. Sniping from behind enemy lines. Setting explosives. Invisible, out of contact and leaving a trail of chaos in his wake. Yes, his commander was the better saboteur, but he couldn't walk within arm's reach of Megatron and not be detected.

Even with Mirage's best efforts, the battle had been a terrible one by Earth standards. Although there were no deactivations, almost no one was uninjured and the Prime was still critical. It left the base in a state of pain and tension that hadn't been felt since they left Cybertron.

If he'd had any choice, if he'd been able to ask anyone to get it for him, he would have. But Bumblebee was in recharge and Jazz was still in stasis awaiting medical attention once they'd stopped him from bleeding out. So Mirage had to get his own energon from the common room. He would have gone in invisible, or at least waited for the middle of the night shift, but he didn't have the reserves. He had to refuel _now_.

"Well, look who's decided to show his face! Hello, Mirage, long time no see! I think I heard you were recently captured, right? But conveniently escaped unharmed? Hey everyone, look at this, Mirage is here! Get a good look, too, before he disappears with more secrets to hand over to his Deceptiscum buddies!" 

Mirage cringed internally, ignored the red minibot, and continued filling his energon cube. He'd learned over time that ignoring his antagonizes was the best option; they tended to get bored without a reaction and wander away. 

Not this time. After a few silent nanokliks, Cliffjumper stalked over to him and looked up, glaring. "Kind of suspicious looking, isn't it, that you go over there for an 'assignment' and then reappear just in time for the 'Cons to know our exact location, while conveniently forgetting to mention their new superweapon to us!" 

Mirage turned around and headed for the door. 

Cliffjumper immediately blocked his way. "What's the matter, nothing to say in your own defense? Maybe there's some truth to it after all? Optimus Prime almost got slagged to the Pit because you conveniently didn't notice a giant ray gun! Maybe that's what you wanted, and after he stuck up for you all this time!"

"Do not speak of what you have no knowledge of," Mirage replied stiffly.

"Why, don't want anyone to hear it?" Cliffjumper shot back. "No one saw you during the battle, and you can conveniently claim you were behind enemy lines." Mirage tried to sidestep and Cliffjumper moved with him. "Two key 'Bots were almost lost, and you're set to take Jazz's place if he winds up in the scrapper. And with Optimus gone Prowl would take command and everyone _knows_ you're warming his berth! Isn't that _convenient?_ " 

"You know, he has a few good points there," a new voice growled. Ironhide stepped forward out of the crowd that had gathered. "If both Jazz and Prime were gone, you would find yourself a cozy second in command position."

::Prowl, I believe I require assistance,:: Mirage pinged with the private comm code he had not used before and quickly subspaced his ration. "Your reasoning has three significant failings," Mirage went to work buying time. "It assumes I wish the position. It assumes that I can out-maneuver _Prowl_ when planning. It assumes that Prowl would lead the army should Optimus Prime deactivate. All three assumptions are fallacies, if not outright stupid."

"Callin' me stupid?" Ironhide growled. "And we'd look to Prowl for long enough." He took several steps forward until he was just a pace away from Mirage. "Of course you'd say you don't want the position, but it sure doesn't mean much in the face of the evidence. How else could you _forget_ to mention a weapon like that?"

"I did not forget. I found no evidence of it while I was there," Mirage maintained his posture, looking for a way to escape that did not involve simply bolting and trusting his speed. He was _not_ going to admit being a prisoner. It wasn't to his advantage right now. Even though he doubted it would work, he tried to step around the two red warriors. He was not in the mood to deal with their insecure aggression.

Ironhide grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked, throwing the lightweight spy back. "And why is it that it's always _you_ who doesn't see any sign of the 'Cons' latest weapon, huh?" He stalked forward, Cliffjumper at his side, and loomed over Mirage. Murmurs and shivers went through the observing crowd and a few others edged their way forward to the front. "Don't know why we ever allowed a stinkin' noble into our ranks in the first place!" Ironhide raised his fist again. 

"Because he volunteered," Prowl's voice cut through the room. "There is not a mech here that belongs any more than a noble does." His gaze was call, all but daring one of them to challenge the statement.

Mirage took the distraction to try and slip away again, or at least get closer to Prowl and his authority.

"He never had to suffer the way the rest of the planet did!" Ironhide shot back, even if his tone and stance smoothed considerably once he was facing the SIC. "He was created to enjoy power over others and he'll try to get it wherever he can, even if that means betraying his own faction! Nobles and their greed destroyed our world, and he'll do the same to us!"

Prowl's doorwings hiked up just a bit. "So because some of his caste were dishonorable, he must be." His gaze hardened. "Tell me Ironhide, what Autobot comes from a caste that had leaders that did not betray the Prime. Tell me why an individual, any individual, should be held accountable for crimes they had no part in." His gaze sharpened more as he advanced on Ironhide, his voice deadly even. "Tell me how you know what rank Mirage held as a noble."

"I--" Ironhide said, momentarily thrown, but quickly gathering himself and squaring his shoulders in the face of Prowl's advance. "He was a _noble_ , what more is there? It's in their _programming_ , Prowl, the lot of them, to look down on everyone! And _he_ \--" Ironhide spun and pointed right at Mirage, "Treats the rest of us like rust on a joint! Wouldn't even take the berth of anyone less than the second in command!"

He knew he'd made a very serious mistake when Prowl's next step brought the SIC's field close enough to teek.

The Praxian was furious, but far more, he felt completely betrayed.

"That attitude is how the Senate justified the policies that lead to the war." Despite the emotions being brought to heel in his field, his voice betrayed nothing of it. "That is the attitude that justifies the Decepticon policies. It is the attitude that bound me to a small pede patrol before Praxus was destroyed." Prowl faltered, but only enough that Ironhide and Mirage, who was now standing to the side and between, them could tell.

"Enough," Mirage's voice was low and cold more than haughty, but there was no missing that he was intensely angry despite his perfect posture. "Yes, I am a noble. A noble _second creation_. I will never be anything else and I am not ashamed of my origins. I serve my Prime because that is what my programming demands of me. I tolerate being an outcast and less than dirt among the mecha I risk being tortured to deactivation for _for the Prime_. I chose to warm Prowl's berth because he treats me as the mech I am, not the mech he wishes me to be."

Prowl glanced at him in surprise, but quickly refocused on Ironhide. "You would do well to educate yourself about a caste before you condemn all mecha of it."

Ironhide faltered under the pair of cold optics and furious fields. He looked between Prowl and Mirage, then nodded in the barest showing of respect to Prowl, ignoring Mirage in the gesture completely. "Sorry, sir," he muttered. "I'll try to do better, sir."

Prowl gave a sharp nod in acceptance of the apology and zeroed in on Cliffjumper.

Cliffjumper winced under the intensity of that gaze. "Just all seems suspicious," he mumbled, looking like he was trying to shrink in on himself but not quite ready to rest the case. "Like he plotted his way into your berth."

"Then you believe that your Chief Tactical Officer and Second in Command can be out-maneuvered in his own function?" Prowl's tone was almost as haughty as Mirage's could be, but it held the cold, deeply insulted harmonics that Mirage always kept to himself. "If he truly is a better tactician than I am, he should have my post."

"No!" Mirage couldn't stop his objection, or the utterly horrified way he sounded. Only after the outburst did he manage to pull himself together.

Cliffjumper--and everyone else who was gathered and watching--gave Mirage a startled glance. Cliffjumper looked back at Prowl. "Just--why _him?_ What makes _him_ so different?"

"Mirage does not make demands of me that I am not inclined to indulge," Prowl responded with the simple truth.

Cliffjumper gaped for a moment, looked at Mirage, then scowled and crossed his arms. "Fine," he muttered. "Can't say I understand it but fine." 

"You are not required to understand," Prowl reminded him. "You are required to treat your fellow Autobots with respect. Accusations of treason are not taken lightly. False accusations of treason are a crime."

Prowl allowed that to sink in before turning and signaling Mirage to follow with a small motion. "Has your damage been repaired?"

"No," Mirage's voice was quiet. "I am listed to be called when they have time to repair me."

Prowl gave a curt nod as they entered the hallway. They walked in silence for several kliks before Prowl paused. Mirage stopped the respectful distance behind him. 

"You did well in there," Prowl said quietly, and began walking again.

Mirage absolutely beamed for several long nanokliks before he stashed it away in the place he stored happy memories for the hard times.

* * *

Prowl sat on his berth, his back ramrod strait but his frame relaxed. Over the last vorn he'd found himself anticipating these appointments more and more, and not just because they made his processor clear. He'd gradually shorted the time between encounters to two orns. Mirage made no complaint and neither had Jazz. While Prowl was slightly uncertain Mirage would complain to him if he felt the timing was too often, Prowl had no doubt that Jazz would know and be very forthright in bringing it up. It was a strange dynamic the three of them shared, but so long as no demands were made of him that he objected to, it was not worth the processor ache involved in trying to analyze it.

It was comfortable, predictable and effective. All things that Prowl appreciated a great deal.

He couldn't quite put the effort into recalling who or how this particular shift in the arrangement had come up, but he was currently very pleased that he had accepted the change. Having Mirage polish his doorwings, helm and back was an exquisite pleasure so different than an overload. Though it took much longer than receiving oral stimulation to relax enough for the final overload to work, it also was much less messy and resulted in an overall reduction in the time he had to take for self-maintenance. Mirage could polish his back far quicker than he could, even with the automated assistance of one of the two washrack stalls.

So it was with a small, contented sound that Prowl felt Mirage work out every speck of dust from under his lightbar.

Mirage hummed in response as he worked a soft, synthetic cloth over the plating and into the crevices in Prowl's back, cleaning every inch, occasionally pausing to switch it out with a different cloth that he dipped into the polish at his side. It was designed to heat with friction so Mirage carefully rubbed it in over every clean surface, working it in until the armor was warm to the touch and gleaming in the faint light. 

He enjoyed this task as much as Prowl did. It was an opportunity to serve his contracted Intended in just one more way, and one that they had both grown to like very much. Mirage reveled in the feeling of Prowl's field slowly opening and smoothing under his touch and his own engines purred with delight. His own field he kept carefully mild and content--Prowl did not seem to mind his pleasure showing anymore--and this task was done wordlessly, as were all the others. 

That he could bring this berthmate such relaxation while also serving him in a very practical way, a paramount for Prowl in everything he did, was an absolute joy for Mirage and he conducted the task with natural grace and skill. 

It was over sooner than either of them wished, but Prowl could not bring himself to continue when it served no functional purpose. He felt Mirage set the polishing tools away, neat, clean and orderly, and settle on the berth behind him. It was only when Prowl felt the distinctive tingle of the disruptor activating that he stood and turned to settle on the berth. With absolute precision he rolled his hips forward into that invisible frame and allowed a soft moan to escape him as the ready, eager valve closed around him with a slick heat.

Mirage had never once given into the temptation to push his hips up and back, but it was still a hard thing sometimes, especially on nights like this after a massage when he'd had a long while before their coupling to anticipate the feeling of Prowl's spike. And oh--Prowl never disappointed, he thought with a silent keen as the length slid over charged, sensitive lining, angled _just right_ for this position. 

On his knees, resting forward on his elbows, hips lifted high into the air--another change, one suggested to decrease the points of contact between Prowl's frame and Mirage's, since those were the only places Prowl could feel Mirage's field. With Mirage's valve open and pushed back and his legs spread as wide as he could while still remaining stable, Prowl could simply drive his spike in, their frames only touching pelvis to aft when he was completely buried. 

Mirage could feel his body already thrumming with energy and bliss, his valve rippling eagerly around the hard spike. It didn't show in his field, nor in his locked frame or silent internal systems, but he was well on his way to his own overload, just from the few strokes Prowl had taken. It was insanely good, better than anything Jazz could generate in him, though Mirage knew that it was because Prowl was his Intended. Jazz was merely a lover. That would change one orn, but until it did Jazz could never generate the kind of bliss that Prowl did.

A low, quiet grunt from behind him sent a current blasting through Mirage. Such a blatant mark of approval, of his Intended's pleasure was almost too much to hold back from. He knew that Prowl enjoyed their appointments a great deal and it warmed him in a way few things could.

Another stroke. Prowl began to roll his hips to increase the sensation for himself as he neared his overload. In response Mirage changed the frequency of the sinusoidal waves that were moving up and down his valve in continuous, caressing ripples. He pushed a small amount of charge through, causing his own sensors to spark with ecstasy. With Jazz he would have been screaming, singing, words and sounds pouring from him as he thrashed in the larger mech's grip. Jazz liked sound and activity, liked to know what he was causing. Prowl wanted still silence, and he received it even as Mirage's charge cascaded through him in an unrelenting storm of sensation.

Only through intense training and experience could Mirage hold completely still and silent as the energy roared through him in a processor-whitening overload that shorted out both his optical and vocal systems. Not a single finger even twitched out of place while he felt screams surge through his silenced vocalizer, but deep in his protoform, so deep it could never be detected, Mirage felt the throbs from the pleasure consuming him.

With nothing being ejected from Prowl's spike during overload, it was far more difficult to tell if the Praxian had been satisfied when Mirage was so distracted. Fortunately, so long as Mirage held still Prowl would satisfy himself. It was only in the pattern of those thrusts that Mirage could tell that his Intended had overloaded within nanokliks of himself.

Mirage cycled his valve, gradually slowing the ripples, massaging the spike until it withdrew. He repeatedly dismissed notices that his systems desperately needed his cooling systems to engage, waiting in the contented bliss that came after feeling Prowl's pleasure. Soon Prowl would leave, and Mirage could clean their quarters for the Praxian's return. 

A strong white hand came to rest on his shoulders, just below his neck, and stroked back. Instead of walking away, Prowl had stood and come to the head of the berth to touch him.

"I will miss you when you are gone," Prowl's whisper, and the honesty behind it, sent and entirely different kind of charge through Mirage.

Before either of them could contemplate saying more, Prowl was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> The scenes:  
> Ch 1: Prowl/buymech, Prowl/Jazz  
> Ch 2: Prowl/Sunstreaker  
> Ch 3: Prowl/Jazz  
> Ch 4: Prowl/Hot Rod  
> Ch 5: Prowl/Ratchet  
> Ch 6: Prowl/Jazz  
> Ch 7: Prowl/Mirage
> 
> Notes:  
> nanoklik = 1/8 second;  
> klik = 496 nanokliks/62 seconds;  
> breem = 8 kliks/8.27 minutes;  
> groon = 9 breem/1.24 hours;  
> joor = 6 groon/7.44 hours;  
> orn = 42 joor/13.02 days;  
> decaorn = 32 orns/1.14 years;  
> metacycle = 8 decaorn/9.22 years;  
> vorn = 9 metacycles/72 decaorn/83 years;
> 
> Prompt:  
> From <http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=12600576#t12600576>
> 
> What if Prowl is truly cold? I always pictured him being a mech who was so engulfed by his job that he didn't want to spend time on such trivialities as interfacing. Unfortunately, he has concluded that he functions better after a good release. So, what if he pays bots to sleep with him? This is strictly professional, no emotions whatsoever; extremely clinical and cold. I reaaally want to read a fic in which Prowl says:
> 
> Prowl placed his hands behind his back and stated coldly: I have five rules. Memorize them.  
> Rule #1: No speaking. I prefer no interaction between us. Try to refrain from moaning, but I can overlook an occasional grunt, so long as the noise is kept at a minimum.  
> Rule #2: No touching. I do not appreciate my body being touched, especially my door-wings. Keep the movement as little as possible.  
> Rule #3: No valve. You will go nowhere near my valve – if you ignore this, there will be repercussions. I prefer my spike getting stimulated only.  
> Rule #4: I expect two overloads from my spike – only two overloads. The first one induced by your mouth, the second one inside your valve.  
> Rule #5: You will speak of this to no one. Once we are done I shall leave the money on my desk and you are required to clean afterwards.  
> Prowl’s cold gaze flickered over the mech: Understood? If you meet all of these expectations, your payment will be generous. However, if you violate any of them, the consequences will be harsh.
> 
> Soo? Any takers? :D I would love to see this written! I don't care who the other bot is, entirely up to anon author :D


End file.
